LZ 99 

LZ 99 
Chester Mohn  eNovel.com 
Glen Allen · Midlothian · Earth 
ff eNovel.com ff 
Main Offce: Operations: 
Glen Allen Midlothian 
Virginia Virginia 
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Support email: support@enovel.com  eNovel L A T E X2 ff PDF­format edition published in the USA, August 8, 2002. 
Copyright c  ff 2000--2002 by Chester Mohn. 
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted  in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic  including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval  system, without prior written permission of the publisher. 
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents  either are the product of the author's imagination or are used  fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,  living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 
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Contents 
The Device 1 
Elmsdorf 7 
1918 15 
Ammi Orleans 33 
London 43 
Major Goldberg 46 
Dantzler 53 
The Beginning 57 
Spies 66 
Sydney Black 70 
Nordholz 72 
Adelgard 83 
The Darhowers 94 
Krupps Ball 97 
Easter 106 
The Game 111  v 

CONTENTS vi 
Berlin 113 
Background Check 117 
La Baroness 121 
The Movie 124 
Picnic 136 
Limping Home 138 
The Blast 140 
Spy 143 
In Hospital 145 
O'Shea 148 
Leave 152 
Gurta Krouse 154 
Friedrichshafen 159 
Jasta 27 164 
Coming Home 167 
Mariah 172 
Test Flight 175 
Strasser 181  x 184 
The Storm 186 
Flight 194 

CONTENTS vii 
The `Egg' 206 
Lawrence Reynolds 208 
The Raid 211 
Falstaff 221 
The SPADs 225 
Buch's Plan 228 
Leave 233 
It Begins 236 
Opening Moves 240 
Ambush 244 
Up Ship 246 
Charlie Bowman 249 
Treason 252 
The Storm 257 
Contact! 259 
The Hunt 262 
The Kill 265 
Target 268 
The End 273 
After the End 278 
The Device 284 

The Device 
England, the present. 
``Chief, we may have a problem,'' the voice on the phone said. 
This statement was directed to Captain Peter Lemoyne, Chief of Section 6, Ordinance 
Disposal Department, Royal Engineers. His department was in charge of cleaning up the  unexploded artillery shells, bombs, grenades and explosives that men had hurled at one  another during various conflicts of the twentieth century. 
The voice on the phone belonged to Corporal George Champion. The words did not  bother Lemoyne as much as the tone. In their profession coolness under pressure wasn't  just desirable, but essential. Others would not have noticed the slight tremor in Champion's  voice, but Lemoyne did. ``What's the problem?'' he asked cautiously. 
``I'd rather you see it yourself,'' Champion replied. It was not what he said, but rather  what he did not. Bomb disposal teams tend to avoid publicity. They prefer to arrive, do the  job and quietly leave. Champion was a good solid man who would not act mysteriously unless  he was afraid his words could bring the Department under extensive, unwanted scrutiny. 
``I'll be right there,'' Lemoyne told him. 
He asked his secretary to bring him the report on Champion's assignment and yelled to 
Sergeant Miller to get the car started. As he got into the passenger seat of their ten­year­old 
Land Rover, Miller asked him, ``Where are we going?'' 
``Fantasy land.'' 
Lemoyne read the report as the Rover headed south, out of London. His father had  fought to defend this land in World War II, as had his grandfather in World War I. In a way  he was a veteran of both those wars. He had been the chief of Section 6, Ordinance Disposal 
Department, Royal Engineers for almost six years and had been in Explosive Ordinance 
Disposal (EOD) for better than twenty. It was time to retire before the odds ran out. 
EOD was not exactly a stroll in the park. Although deployed to defuse bombs hidden by  terrorists, criminals and psychos, they spent a lot of their time defusing explosives either  dropped by the Germans, or simply forgotten during the Allied defense of the British Isles. 
In reality, England was a fairly safe locale. Belgium had a similar unit, as did France, 
Holland, Germany, Poland and Russia. They defused ten times more unexploded ordinance  than England. 
Miller pulled off the main highway on to a bumpy dirt road that led to a construction  site in the suburbs just south of the City of London. Next to farms, construction zones  were EODs big customers. The site was behind a newly opened theme park. The noise  of amusement machinery and the happy screams of youngsters filled the air. Workers were 
smoking and drinking from their thermoses while big yellow construction vehicles sat sullenly  silent. Miller spotted Champion's Land Rover and parked alongside. Lemoyne had barely  opened the door, when he was approached by two men. One he assumed was the construction  foreman by his work clothes. The other? ``I am George Brooks, the park's general manager. 
It's imperative I know how long the delay will be,'' he said, shaking Lemoyne's hand briskly. 
``I know no more than you, sir,'' Lemoyne said quietly. ``Let me confer with my people,  and I'll let you know as soon as possible.'' 
He broke away from the men and headed toward the area encircled by a makeshift  barrier of yellow tape. In order to expand the park the land that had been a pond and  marsh was drained the week before. The ground underfoot, which had been so recently the  muddy bottom of the pond was now a jigsaw puzzle of cracked clay that smelled of decay. 
``Captain. Sergeant. Good morning,'' Champion said, shaking hands. ``Come along.'' 
As they headed past the yellow tape, he told the others what he knew so far, reading  from a small notebook. ``The device was found by the construction crew yesterday. They  thought it was a storage tank of some sort. As they didn't know what it contained, they  called the Fire Department who alerted a Hazardous Material Unit to look into it. They  called us.'' 
Champion lifted the tape and Lemoyne's first look at the thing was not impressive,  just a dirty brown curved lump. Most of it was still buried in the mud. ``I have done  some probes and digging,'' Champion continued, ``overall length about 13­and­a­half meters,  width 3­and­a­half meters.'' Miller let out a low whistle and Lemoyne's eyebrows shot up. 
Almost 50 feet long and more than 12 feet wide. It was big --- damn big. Lemoyne's mind  raced through the known types of bombs that met that description. The Allies used a few  blockbusters close to that size during WW II. They had also used big earthquake bombs  designed to penetrate heavy concrete fortifications such as submarine pens, but there had  never been any structures like that in this area. Champion continued, ``There is no tail  section or indication of tail fins. The type of device is unknown.'' 
Rust covered the thing like scaly dead skin and had pushed the paint away, although  you could actually discern markings. The device had been painted black at one time. On  the side, so faint as to be almost invisible, was a white rectangle with some faded words. 
``It looks like Krupp Iron works,'' Miller said, tracing the letters with his finger. ``And  this could be the date of manufacture.'' 
Lemoyne looked closely, putting on the reading glasses that were his concession to  advancing age. He could just make out the beginning of the word `October'. The day of  manufacture was totally gone, as was the beginning of the year, but the last digit seemed to  be a seven. He shook his head, 19 blank 7. 
`This doesn't make sense,`` he muttered, ''It had to be here before 1967.'' 
``That's what I figured,'' Champion agreed. ``I don't believe it was made in fifty­seven. 
It couldn't possibly have been made in 47, and the other number looks like it has at least  one straight line so that eliminates 37 and 27. The only date that fits is 1917. 
``That's ridiculous,'' Lemoyne said, squinting at the number, ``but it sure looks like it.'' 

The device sat nose down at about a ten­degree angle. There was a large canister  protruding from the end that could be the fuse. They decided to call that end the nose. 
``Champion, tell the police to expand the restricted area to about five hundred yards,'' 
Lemoyne hesitated, ``for now.'' 
He went over to where Brooks was waiting, not a happy man. ``Well Captain,'' he  asked imperiously, ``when can my men get back to work?'' 
``Not for a while yet,'' Lemoyne kept his voice calm. ``You might as well send them  home.'' 
``Captain, this is costing my company money,'' Brooks began to shout. . . ``I insist  you. . . '' 
Lemoyne cut him off. ``Mr. Brooks, I need to talk to you,'' he looked around, ``alone.'' 
They walked a few yards, Brooks fuming. ``Mr. Brooks, I will count on your discretion. 
I am sure you will see the need for absolute secrecy.'' Lemoyne spoke firmly. ``What we  appear to have is a very large, rusty container which may be full of explosive. If it ignites,  it could devastate a considerable area.'' Brooks paled as Lemoyne went on: ``The park must  be closed right away. The Army will arrive soon. We will claim to have found a container  of hazardous waste, which I suppose, in a way, it is.'' 
Brooks left to make important decisions and phone calls. Lemoyne had decisions and  phone calls to make of his own. 
The Army came with troops, chemical detectors, explosive warfare experts and heavy  equipment to extract the device --- once it had been made safe. The commanding offcer was  a Lieutenant Colonel named Brickland. He deferred to the EOD department as to disarming  of the bomb, as they had more experience with older munitions. Lemoyne also suspected he  didn't want to be involved if things went wrong. 
Lemoyne had phoned Charles Holmes, who arrived driving a red Jaguar convertible. 
He had been called `Inspector' Holmes during his time in the department as a joke. Like  the legendary Sherlock Holmes, he was the most careful, meticulous man Lemoyne had ever  known. He'd handled more explosive devices than any man alive had had, but arthritic  hands forced him to quit a year ago. 
``Ah, Charles,'' Lemoyne greeted him. ``Come, Sgt. Miller has a few papers for you to  sign.'' 
``Papers?'' he grinned. ``What papers?'' 
``They authorize me to pay you an exorbitant consultation fee,'' Lemoyne replied. 
``I need no payment.'' He looked insulted. 
``Sorry, I must pay you or I can't let you in. Regulations,'' Lemoyne shrugged. 
The Army dug a hole at the nose of the device, shored it up, and installed a hose running  to a portable pump that kept the muddy water that seeped in under control. Lemoyne  watched Holmes disappear into the hole, dressed in a bright yellow, armored suit and full  helmet, carrying a small toolbox, whisk broom and spray bottle of water. 

The sun was setting when he emerged and waddled over to the command tent. Miller  took his tools and helped remove his helmet and suit. Holmes was eager to be rid of this  paraphernalia, and made a fast trip to the portable toilet. 
``It's German,'' he announced on his return. `` It has an atmospheric fuse with a backup  timer to explode at a set altitude. Very sophisticated, for its age.'' 
``I thought the Germans had some pretty sophisticated stuff in W W two,'' Colonel 
Brickland remarked. 
``This isn't second war stuff,'' Holmes said, mopping the sweat from his face. ``It's 
World War I!'' 
``No way!'' Champion chimed in. ``A plane big enough to lift it didn't exist.'' 
``True,'' Holmes said, rubbing the towel in his hair, ``but it is here.'' 
``There is a white­painted area on the side. It could be instructions and warnings for  the loaders,'' he said. ``It would be nice if we could read it and find out what we are up  against. I took some Polaroids of it.'' 
They looked at the photos. Marks could be seen, but to actually make words of them  seemed impossible. 
``I saw something on BBC the other night about an archeological dig in China,'' Cham­  pion said. ``It concerned a team from Cambridge using a computer to enhance weathered  writings so they can be translated.'' 
Lemoyne saw where this was heading. ``Call the BBC and Cambridge. See if they can  help,'' he told Champion. ``This thing isn't going anywhere.'' 
During the night a large plastic tent was erected over the device to protect it from the  elements and hide it from snooping reporters. They decided not to remove the dirt from the  sides of the device as it offered support. If dug out, the heavily corroded case might crack  from its own weight. 
They kicked around ideas like sucking the explosives out or coating the casing in  fiberglass to seal it, and ways of transporting it to a location where it could be exploded. 
It could not possibly be detonated here. A bomb this size could send chunks of metal for  miles. Of course, all of this depended on what type of explosive was in it, and disarming the  fuse. 
``Fuses are funny things. Sometimes they are a rotten lump of rust. Other times they  are as clean as a clock, made of the finest material available at the time, well oiled and  sealed. Some you could hit with a hammer. Others wait for a whisker touch and then start  ticking again or simply explode,'' Lemoyne told Brickland. 
This fuse was different from anything they had seen. 
Champion returned with the message that the archeology group had been found, but  they could not work from a photograph as color and light had to be analyzed. ``Invite them  in,'' Lemoyne told him. ``We'll pay them for their trouble.'' 
Lemoyne thought of calling his wife, but they had grown apart since their children left  home. She could not understand why he hadn't retired. She never understood his profession 
and living with death for so long had turned her cold. He called his secretary and had her  forward the message he would not be home for a few days. 
The Army had put up tents as living quarters. Lemoyne was amazed at how quickly 
Holmes had fallen asleep. He lay there remembering the times his father brought him to this  pond to fish, neither of them suspecting the monster beneath the surface. Lemoyne listened  to the crickets, the hum of the air conditioner, and finally fell into a troubled sleep. 
Next morning a small van appeared. The words `Cambridge Dept. of Ancient Studies'  were emblazoned on the doors. Lemoyne was surprised to discover its five passengers were  all women. The leader identified herself as Professor Amanda Wainwright, who although  well into her forties, she was still a knockout. Her assistants glowed with outdoorsy vigor. 
Lemoyne could almost feel the testosterone level rise in the military contingent nearby. 
``Where's the artifact?'' Professor Wainwright asked in a tone that was all business. 
Lemoyne pointed to the tent over the bomb and explained what it was and what they  needed. He told Professor Wainwright she and her assistants would need to be fitted with  the bulky blast suits. 
``If that thing explodes, will these suits save us?'' she asked sarcastically. 
``Probably not,'' Lemoyne answered truthfully. 
``Then to hell with them,'' the Professor said curtly. 
In a very short time, a camera had been set up and another tent was been erected  which housed a table, chairs, two computers, a TV set and a bank of controls. An image  of the bomb's once­white rectangle flashed on the TV screen with a cross­hair gage on it. 
Professor Wainwright barked orders to the operator who centered and focused the image. 
Another modulated the light. ``That's good,'' she said softly, ``Scan.'' 
Lemoyne was not comfortable in the computer world, but knew enough to understand  he was now looking at a highly magnified image showing the tiny pixels that made up the  big picture. The little cursor arrow on the screen flew as Wainwright selected and clicked. 
``You chaps might as well go to lunch,'' she said, not taking her eyes from the screen. ``This  will take a while.'' 
The girls flirted with the soldiers. The day rolled on. 
It was nearly dark again when Wainwright finally stood up and stretched. ``That's it,''  she announced. ``George has it.'' 
``George?'' Lemoyne was puzzled. She just pointed at the computer, ``Gorgeous 
George.'' Only a tiny flashing light indicated it was doing anything at all. 
``Would any of you gentlemen like to buy a lady a drink?'' 
The group retired to the mess tent for a cup of coffee and a hot meal. ``I'm afraid I'm  not to `with it' when it comes to computers,'' Holmes said. ``Just what is `George' doing?'' 
Amanda Wainwright perked up like a new mother asked about her kids. ``Right now,''  she said taking a bite out of a bagel, ``he is playing an enormous game of connect the dots. He  connects all the foreground pixels I designated, that's the color of the letters, and examines 
the designs produced. Then he sees if he can match any designs with known characters. 
After identifying characters, it matches format. Then he checks his dictionary for matching  or possible words. Then he checks sentence structure and syntax. Hell, he even matches up  simple graphics like a pointing hand. And then he does the whole thing again until he has  a reasonable approximation of the original. That's when we mere humans take over.'' 
``Do you think we will be able to decipher the message?'' Lemoyne asked. 
``An artifice less than a hundred years old, in a modern language and syntax with  clearly­defined foreground?'' she laughed. ``A piece of cake. You should try to decipher an 
Egyptian hieroglyph that's been outdoors for 7000 years or a Chinese manuscript that has  been at the bottom of an ocean for a thousand years.'' She snapped her fingers. ``This is so  easy I told George to translate it into English for you.'' 
Two hours later she called them in and told them it was done. Wainwright's entire  team was there and the tent smelled pleasantly of females. The only light came from the  computer terminals glow, which bathed everyone in blue­green. ``George will reproduce the  image line by line,'' Wainwright explained. ``The English translation will appear in that  little box in the lower right.'' 
The line zipped across the screen soon forming the first part of the message. ``See,'' the 
Professor shouted in triumph, `` George picked up the skull and crossbones graphic straddling  the word `Achtung' !'' 
No one spoke as the message slowly revealed itself. When it was done, fear had wormed  into Lemoyne's guts. ``Get Colonel Brickland, please,'' Lemoyne whispered to Champion. 
``Tell him to bring a couple of husky lads with him.'' 
``Can you print that?'' Lemoyne's voice rang out. Wainwright pressed a key and in a  few moments the laser printer shot out a hard copy. 
``Ladies,'' Lemoyne announced, ``in accordance with the provisions of the War Secrets  act, I am authorized to hold you incommunicado until further notice.'' There was a hum  of discontent. ``You will be taken from here to a secure place and your needs will be met.'' 
Lemoyne continued, ``You will not be allowed to communicate with anyone.'' 
``I'm to get married this weekend,'' one of the girls shouted. 
``I am truly sorry,'' Lemoyne said looking directly at the fury­filled face of Professor 
Wainwright. 
``I hope you have authorization for this.'' Brickland whispered so only Lemoyne could  hear. 
Lemoyne handed him the piece of paper. Brickland's eyes widened as he read it. 
``I will have,'' Lemoyne said quietly. 

Elmsdorf 
Elmsdorf, Germany, January 19, 1915 
In the dark before morning, the gray­clad men waited, some in groups, some alone. 
They held cups of coffee, or tea, or hot chocolate. Some were outside under the stars; others  just inside the huge building. Most were young. None were old. A few played cards while  others slept. They talked in subdued tones about home, families, jobs, futures and, of course,  girls. Many complained about the morning chill, but to others it awoke pleasant memories. 
In the east, the black sky now had the barest tinge of blue. Dew was starting to form  and birds began to awake. A fresh­smelling, chilly breeze danced across the meadow. The  men were not interested in the east, their attention was focused in the other direction, toward  the dark side of the dawn. 
Although an observer couldn't tell, they all were waiting for a sign from a mousy­  looking kid named Gustav Vogelsong. He sat in the building's entrance on a stool leaning up  against the giant open door, his eyes half shut. He was barely five feet tall, weighed less than  a hundred and ten pounds and had just turned eighteen. In a unit that required heft and  strength, he was considered a definite misfit --- until his talents were revealed. He was known  to his companions as `Ears', partially because of the way these remarkable appendages stuck  out from his head like trophy handles, and for his amazing ability to use them. It was said he  could ``hear a flea pass gas in the next room.'' Nearby several Navy petty offcers were playing  cards, using wooden boxes as stools and a bigger wooden box as a table. Occasionally one  would glance up at Vogelsong and, seeing he wasn't moving, go back to the game. Eventually 
Vogelsong opened his eyes and met the petty offcer's glance. ``It comes,'' he whispered. The  petty offcer nodded, finished the hand he was playing, threw down the cards, stood, and  stretched. ``Form up,'' he announced in a stentorian voice. 
There was a lot of bustle as the men formed three groups of approximately fifty each  forming a large U. The chief petty offcer stood before them. ``Close ranks,'' he boomed, 
``Front!'' A hundred and fifty right feet struck the ground a loud satisfying thud. `Ears'  was given the place of honor holding the Imperial flag. ``Forward,'' the chief whirled to face  front, ``march 
In a smaller building topped by a spindly tower, a number of offcers sat eating break­  fast. Many of them, hearing the men marching on the field, muttered a curse under their  breath. Observers in the towers were supposed to alert the offcers, who would then call out  the men. The NCOs kept `Ears' a closely guarded secret, sending a silent message that they,  the NCOs, really ran things. Offcers quickly put on coats and ran out to the field so they  could shout very authoritarian orders, which really weren't necessary. In the tower, the two  enlisted men panned the west with their binoculars. A group of lights flashed on, looking like 
fresh stars. At the same time a buzzing could be heard, like the gentle hum of a bumblebee. 
They quickly confirmed the position and shouted it to the men below. The field was lit by  dozens of lights that revealed a row of large buildings, as well as smaller structures. The  field itself was two square kilometers of neatly mowed grass. At the southwest corner stood  a bright yellow cross, mounted horizontally on a swivel bearing to a beam. A large fin on  the end made the cross point into the wind like an arrow. The chief turned to his men and  shouted so he could be heard above the buzz that had now become a loud drone. 
``Remember, you are zeppelin men.'' 
``Zeppelin men,'' they shouted back. 
The ritual served to imbue pride and spirit to the soldiers and in the winter of 1915 they  had a right to such pride. They served the mightiest, most technically advanced machine ever  built by man. The zeppelin ruled the air, going where they wanted, when they wanted, with  virtual impunity. Airplanes of the period were simply powered kites. In 1915 the zeppelin  flew higher, further and with a greater payload than any plane. The concept of the fighter  plane was yet to be born; the forward firing aircraft machine gun hadn't been invented. 
Zeppelins were heavily armed and if a plane were foolish enough to attack, its machine guns  would only punch little holes in the giant's gasbags, causing little damage. There were no  anti­aircraft guns, as the artillery of the era had not been designed to fire straight up. Each  zeppelin contained thousands of cubic meters of hydrogen that did pose the risk of explosion  and cause a few disasters. But these men were German and zeppelin men. . . the best of the  best. 
In the control gondola, the crew hung on to every word from the captain. Commander 
Otto von Buch was a leader in every sense of the word. Had he not become a military offcer,  he would still lead men, because they wanted him to. He was a rugged man of average height  and build. As a youth, he had been a mountain climber and was known to have fought a  duel or two in military school. Now his beard was streaked with gray, and he had stared into  the sun so long his eyes took on a permanent squint. His wide stance, as he stood in the  darkened control room, was typical of a zeppelin man, and he stuck his hands in his pockets  to show his crew he had total confidence in their talents. 
``All engines half speed. Come to a heading of 93 degrees. Planes down five degrees.'' 
He spoke clearly and distinctly, loud enough to be heard, but not to shout. The field below  was only a shade lighter than the surrounding forest. The zeppelin hangars at the east end  were clearly illuminated, as was the wind direction indicator, showing a breeze blowing from  the northwest. A signal light indicated the surface wind velocity was no greater than ten  knots, still considerable pressure on the side of a zeppelin whose area was more than the size  of two football fields. 
``Number one,'' the captain called, to be answered by a man in his thirties with a huge  handlebar mustache. ``Yes, sir?'' 
``Enter from the south and signal for a high approach.'' 
``Aye, aye, sir,'' the mustached man replied. He then started to bark a series of orders  to the crew. Like an old time sailor, the helmsman stood at the ship's wheel in the center 
of the gondola, controlling left and right movement. The elevator man, who controlled the  up and down flight, as well as the roll of the craft, held a similar wheel located on the left of  the gondola parallel to the centerline. On the right of the gondola stood the gas man, who  controlled the altitude of the zeppelin by venting the hydrogen gas or dumping water from  the ballast tanks, pulling on wooden handles attached to cables hanging from the ceiling. 
At the front of the gondola was the signalman's station, where contact with the ground was  maintained with a Morse lamp. 
The men reacted flawlessly to the first offcer's commands, knowing he was merely the  assistant in this drama. The master, the captain, would control the final approach. The  first offcer brought the huge vessel a kilometer south of the field at 500 meters altitude with  her nose pointed west­northwest at two hundred ninety­five degrees. Her engines made just  enough headway to hover. 
Commander Buch smiled. The first offcer, Lieutenant Johan Fritz was not only his  teammate but also a good friend. Buch knew that soon he would be commanding his own  ship. The zeppelin was allowed to drift slowly until it was directly over the lighted cross. 
``Engines at three quarter speed. Come to a heading of 285. Altitude 200 meters.'' The  captain had taken command again. 
On the ground the Chief Petty Offcer had anticipated the approach and positioned  the crew. The base of the U lay west­northwest and the arms pointed east­southeast. The  unit moved to stay below the zeppelin's path. 
``We're going to get splashed,'' one of the crew grumbled in disgust referring to the  fact that zeppelin captains often dumped water ballast for stability when landing. 
The man next to him chuckled, ``This is Buch's ship. The landing will be smoother  than your lady's bottom.'' 
The zeppelin loomed over their heads like some giant dark gray cloud. It was hard to  believe it weighed hundreds of tons. 
``All stop,'' Buch announced. ``Drop lines fore and aft.'' 
Ropes fell from the craft like spider webs to the men below. The U formation broke  up, grabbing the lines at the nose and tail. They now began a kind of tug­of­war, pulling  against the zeppelin and each other to keep it steady against the breeze. 
``Vent two and three,'' Buch said holding his left hand up with his second and third  fingers extended,`` and five and six.'' He held his right hand up in the same way. The gas  man opened the valves to vent hydrogen allowing the zeppelin to sink. When the fingers  retracted, he closed the valves. 
Seconds later the inflated pads at the base of the tail and the gondola gently touched  the grass at the same instant. The captain lowered his arms. The air and ground crews  knew they had witnessed a virtuoso performance of piloting. 
``Very good, gentlemen,'' Commander Buch proclaimed. 
The zeppelin was now in the hands of the ground crew. In the years ahead there would  be mooring masts and safe tractors. But now, the ground crew used sheer strength to wrestle 
the vessel into the giant sheds built to house the airship. There it would be safe. To relieve  the ship's weight, it would be secured to the overhead structure of the building, hence the  name `hangar'. 
Chief Petty Offcer Becker climbed down the access ladder from the body of the craft  into the control gondola. Legend had it that Becker served aboard LZ­1, Count Zeppelin's  first airship. Untrue, although he had helped to build it. He handed Buch the logbook,  which the commander quickly scanned. It listed the maintenance write­ups that occurred  during the flight, most minor, except one. ``Have Dantzler look to number four engine,'' he  told the chief. ``After the ship is secure, give the crew a two­day pass.'' 
The chief snapped to attention and saluted. ``Yes, sir,'' he beamed. He had an ap­  pointment with a very friendly Fraulien downtown and two days would be nice. 
The captain and first offcer descended the ladder to the ground, first saluting the  imperial German flag on the zepplin's stern. 
They walked away from the craft now bathed in the first rays of light from the morning  sun, their legs getting used to a surface that didn't sway slightly under them. Both started  to undo their heavy overcoats. It was warm down here on the ground, but damn cold a few  thousand feet up. 
``Not a bad flight for our first mission over Britain,'' Fritz remarked cheerfully. 
Their ship, along with three others, had just made the first bombing raid in history,  attacking facilities in the British port of Folkstone. It was a bomb from their squadron that  caused the death of Mary Todd. 
``It could have been better,'' Buch replied, ``I don't think we hit our target.'' 
In the distance they could see the little Opel sedan driven by Seaman Shultz, the  company clerk, heading toward them. 
``We'll get better,'' Fritz said. 
Buch pulled a pipe and tobacco from a pocket. ``So will they, Jo,'' he replied, ``so will  they.'' 
They were driven to the headquarters building for a debriefing with the base comman­  der, Captain Weis, and the intelligence offcer, Lieutenant Hoffman. Weis was a middle­aged,  athletic, man who listened while the lieutenant, looking barely out of school, asked questions  from a written list sent from Berlin. Buch and Fritz answered mechanically. The interview  over, the young man excused himself, saluted, and left. The commander reached into his  desk and brought out a bottle of schnapps and three glasses he proceeded to fill. All three  tossed down the first drink. The commander refilled the glasses and motioned them to sit  down. ``Well, Otto,'' he said looking at Buch, ``how'd it really go?'' 
``We need to improve our bombing techniques. Most of ours missed completely,'' Buch  replied while sipping the drink. ``On the other hand, I'll bet their press will have a quite a  time of it, and the British will have to tie up a lot of manpower hunting us.'' 
``We'll do better,'' the commander spoke, reaching into his desk drawer again. He  tossed a brown envelope and two small bits of metal to Fritz. ``These are your new orders, 

Lieutenant Commander Fritz.'' Fritz's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. ``You are to  report to Friedrichshafen to take command of his Imperial Majesty's newest zeppelin, the L 
27.'' The commander stood and held out his hand. 
``Congratulations, Captain'' he said solemnly. Although his rank would be Lieutenant 
Commander, commanding his own ship earned the title of captain. Buch stood and shook 
Fritz's hand too. ``Damn,'' he said jovially, ``does this mean I no longer have to change your  diaper?'' 
Fritz was almost embarrassed as he asked to be excused. ``I believe there is a round or  two of drinks I need to buy,'' he stammered. 
``Don't drink it all before we get there,'' the commander laughed and shooed him out. 
The mood in the offce changed as soon as the young man left. ``I've got something for  you, too,'' he said to Buch, ``and I feel it won't be as pleasant.'' 
He handed a large red envelope to Buch. Buch could tell it was from the German High 
Command. ``I need to attend to other debriefings,'' the commander said. ``I'll meet you later  at Shed 10.'' He motioned toward the envelope. ``You can tell me about it then.'' 
Inside was a sheaf of papers and a blue envelope sealed with wax bearing the seal of  the Kaiser. Buch knew the subject. It was his plan for the use of zeppelins to end the war,  end it quickly and with a clear German victory 
Buch quickly paged through to where the members of the High Command made their  recommendations before it was forwarded to the Kaiser. He quickly scanned their comments. 
``Repulsive'' 
``Grossly offensive'' 
``Disgusting'' 
``A loathsome act against humanity'' 
``The German people would be considered barbarians, and rightly so.'' 
``I am ashamed a German offcer could even conceive such a plan.'' 
None of the initiating leaders said the idea would not work. No comments that the  logistics, or technology wasn't up to the task. The single fact the plan was forwarded to the 
Kaiser indicated they could not argue its practicality, only its morality. 
Buch opened up the letter from his Imperial Majesty. Written in a tight cursive  style and more diplomatic than the others, it concluded: ``This German offcer should be  commended for his intelligence and zeal, but the German people have a certain responsibility  to the world, and it is for this reason we cannot address this plan at this time.'' 
So even the Kaiser recognized the plan would work. He just didn't want history to  point the finger at him. 
Buch was tempted to throw the letter in the fire. ``Let the whole thing go up the  chimney,'' he thought, ``along with my career.'' Then he looked again at the last line. ``We  cannot address this plan at this time.'' 

``Yes,'' he muttered to no­one, ``but there will come a time.'' Of that he was sure. 
There were nine sheds on base of which six housed zeppelins. Three had been built to  house more as they were delivered. 
Off base in a house, textile mill and warehouse, a young entrepreneur named George 
Bluchett from Cologne had built the kind of place guaranteed to make money next to a  military base. Part saloon, part casino, part nightclub, and part brothel it was designed  to separate a young man far from home with his money. It was the type of place they  would brag about to their friends and never, ever, tell their mothers. The zeppelin men  jumped on it and regardless what the owner wanted to name it, it became Shed Ten. A huge  wooden bar dominated the main hall with an equally huge model of a zeppelin hanging above  it, a silk stocking hanging from one of the engine nacelles. Three fat aproned bartenders  served beer and schnapps. Behind them was a large cracked mirror. Bottles of liquor were  not prominently displayed before this mirror. Experience showed their life expectancy was  practically nil, and they had been moved to safer quarters. The expanse of floor was covered  with tables, chairs, gray clad men, gaily clad women displaying their wares, and a patina  of spilled beer. Waitresses dressed in Bavarian costume moved through the crowd carrying  heavy, beer­laden, trays. There was an undulating noise­level only punctuated by a raunchy  laugh, or a woman's squeal. At the far end a band played, while on a small wooden stage, a  young woman competed with the noise, singing a popular song. She was losing. The place  smelled of beer, perfume, cigar smoke, sweat and cooking. 
The flight and ground crews, who worked through the morning and slept through the  afternoon, flowed into Shed Ten like ants to a picnic. 
Fritz was not the only one on the promotion list; other offcers and enlisted personnel  had reason to celebrate. From the mood in the place this would be a night many would  never forget --- and just as many never remember. 
Across from the stage was a raised mezzanine --- offcer country. It was an unwritten  law; offcers could come down from this platform to hobnob with the enlisted men, who were  never to ascend the platform. Captain Buch slowly climbed the steps, waving to acknowledge  the greetings of his crew. A now rocky Lieutenant Commander Fritz beckoned him. ``Here 
Captain,'' he shouted, ``we saved you a seat.'' It was occupied by a young lieutenant sitting  very still, a stein of beer grasped tightly in his grip. He was apparently comatose. Fritz gave  him a slight shove and the boy simply collapsed sideways. A couple of employees picked him  up and carried him away. ``I have often wondered where they take them,'' Buch remarked  as he sat down. 
``Drink enough schnapps and you'll find out,'' Captain Weis sang out. 
``Knowing how he'll feel tomorrow,'' Buch shot back, ``I don't want to know.'' 
There was something else in the room. Something that no one would even consider  existed. An emotional bond formed by a singular purpose and --- loneliness. A feeling of  belonging. A feeling of comradeship. A feeling of love, of a sort. It was the thing that  made war bearable. The feeling that these men would try to rekindle as veterans --- and fail. 
Those heighten emotions can only rise to the surface during something as intense as war. 

Even those men who never faced the enemy felt it. It was as thick as the smoke filled air. 
As invisible as the odor of a woman. 
A plate of sausages and sauerkraut appeared magically before Buch, along with a stein  decorated with zeppelins that held at least a full liter. Buch needed to swallow his mood, so  stood up and announced a toast. ``To the Count.'' Only the person with the full zeppelin  stein was allowed to toast the Count. The multitude quieted and faced the portrait of Count 
Graf von Zeppelin hanging proudly alongside the Kaiser. For this toast everybody had to  empty their glass completely, and if the proposer failed in this, he bought drinks for the  house. Buch lowered his glass and turned it upside down. A couple of swallows splashed to  the floor. Buch shrugged in defeat and the crowd roared, the sound so loud you could feel  it. It was also tradition the toaster always lost on purpose. Buch sat down feeling bloated. 
A good thing this bonding. When you ask men to risk their lives, you need more than  regulations. 
A raunchy drinking ballad concerning Catherine the Great's choice of a mount for her  morning ride was in progress as Buch moved to something a little stronger than beer, and  the tension of the day began to wane. Captain Weis pushed himself from the table with  a belch and rose unsteadily. ``You gentleman will excuse me while I partake of our host's  most excellent facilities,'' he announced with an exaggerated bow. He glanced at Buch and  nodded slightly in the direction of the door. Buch caught the signal, rose and said, ``I'll join  you. You might get lost, then who knows what we'll find in the beer?'' 
Behind Shed Ten were three out­buildings, one for enlisted men, one for women and  one for offcers, slightly bigger than the other two. ``This is because they are full of shit,'' the  men would offer by way of explanation. Along the path, Weis and Buch received a couple of  very exaggerated salutes from two very unstable chiefs, who then staggered away laughing  like school girls. Just off the path they spotted a young boy hunched over, bracing himself  against a tree while his stomach tried to turn him inside out. 
Weis staggered over and patted him on the shoulder. ``Are you all right, son?'' He  asked gently. 
The boy who looked as if he had just started shaving looked at them with unseeing  owl's eyes. ``Oh, yes, sir. Never felt better,'' he shouted, then went back to his business. 
Buch and Weis laughed. ``The joys of over­indulgence,'' Weis laughed. ``He'll probably  try to bed a wench tonight, too.'' 
``Were we ever that young?'' Buch asked. 
``Oh God, I hope not,'' Weis replied,`` or we would never have gotten this old.'' 
The two men stood side­by­side in the little building urinating into a long wooden  trough. Weis threw back his head: ``Ah,'' he exclaimed, ``better than sex.'' 
``Either I don't know how to urinate,' Buch replied buttoning his trousers, ''or you  don't know how to fornicate.'' 
Outside, Weis offered Buch a cigar. They stood for a minute smoking and listening to  the muted laughter and singing coming from the bistro. The young man was gone. ``The  message was extremely bad?'' Weis asked. 

Buch simply shrugged. 
``You put too much in it,'' Weis said as he formed smoke rings in the air. ``Our admirals  tell us our Navy can defeat any in the world and our generals say there will be a breakthrough  any day. We will be in Paris before the end of summer.'' 
Weis put his arm around Buch's shoulders in the way of men. ``Your plan was too  much too soon. Come, let us raise up a stein of good beer and lay down a bad woman.'' He  smiled at Buch. ``And you take a couple of days off too. That's an order.'' 
``You're right. Let's eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow,'' Buch winked at Weis, ``the  war might be over.'' 
They entered the bistro and weaved their way toward their seats. On the main floor  two men held aloft by their comrades were mocking a zeppelin battle by shooting each other  with seltzer bottles. At their table now sat Erik Dantzler, a young Swiss technician who  worked for Maybach engines as their technical representative. 
``I was just telling Fritz,'' Dantzler began, ``the problem seems to be carburetor icing. 
As you go higher the air cools and the carburetor venturis form ice. . . '' 
``Hanna!'' Weis called over an attractive girl who jumped at the idea she was chosen  by the commander. ``I want you,'' he spoke very distinctly, ``to sit on that young man's lap,  and wriggle.'' 
She immediately obeyed, causing Dantzler's face to glow bright red and the table to  explode in laughter. 
On the stage, a woman of more mature years tried to sing with very little success,  and finally stormed off. In her place, literally lifted by his comrades, stood the diminutive 
Gustav Vogelsong. Someone had heard he sang with some renown in the church choir in his  home. A few bits of garbage sailed by. ``Come Ears, sing like a bird.'' Finally, shyly, he  began. 
Slowly his voice rose to a clear, full, tenor, capable of volume and feeling. At first he  fought the cacophony of the crowd, but one by one, the men quieted, and quieted others. 
He sang the haunting lines of Lily Marlene, a soldier's song. It would become popular to  soldiers on both sides of the lines. A song of home, and love, and war. 
Many of the soldiers' eyes were wet and their throats hurt from repressed sobs. Others,  too drunk to care, wept openly. 
Buch looked around. After this song the party would subtly, silently, end. The men  would drift away, some back to barracks, some to the rooms upstairs and others to carriages  to take them into town. Buch would return to base, sleep off the effects of the alcohol, shower  and go home to see his daughter. She was fourteen and almost a woman. As the words of 
Lily Marlene filled the air, the vision of his daughter merged with that of his wife, who died  giving her life. The men in the tavern began to sing along softly. Buch looked into their  faces, offcers and enlisted alike. He came to a startling realization, all these men gathered  together --- were alone. Each man was thinking of his family, his wife, his lover. The men  shared their solitude. Tears trickled down Buch's cheeks. 

Elmsdorf Germany, January 1918 
The base had changed considerably in the last three years. The zeppelin sheds under  construction had long since been completed. None had ever housed a zeppelin, as the  squadron never came up to full strength. Other out buildings had gone up as the need arose,  buildings to house security, fire brigade, and a hospital. 
The base now showed a certain amount of negligence as there were no longer the funds,  or the manpower, to maintain it in prime condition. 
The men no longer showed the pride and luster of earlier zeppelin men. Uniforms  were duller, boots scuffed, lines of march not as straight. They came to attention instead of  snapping. They grumbled more. Even the wild, carefree parties still held at Shed Ten held  a forced air to them. There were many young new faces. 
The spotters saw the zeppelin appear on the western horizon. The ground crews no  longer had the advantage of `Ears' Vogelsong. He had been promoted to Petty Offcer and  flight­crew status. 
The distant zeppelin moved slowly. It was obvious it was struggling to make the base. 
Even with the wind astern, it barely had enough ground speed to maintain steerage­way. 
The senior NCOs knew from experience there would be little maneuvering: it would come  in straight, with the wind in the wrong direction. The ground crews would have to wrestle  the behemoth around, head it into the wind. 
``Let's go men,'' the Chief Petty Offcer shouted, to be answered with a chorus of moans  and curses. This was the last of the squadron on a mission to bomb England that morning  and the men had already manhandled three monsters into their sheds. The last of those had  been hit with a small wind gust and momentarily got away from them. It smashed into the  shed wall, getting a nasty gash in its skin and bending part of the frame. It also managed  to crush a sailor's leg. 
Five had been launched but they would only recover four. Many had friends aboard L 
29 who died in a screaming inferno plunging to earth. The men were tired, cold, frustrated  and generally pissed at the world. The NCOs, at least the smart ones, knew to treat them  with kid gloves. ``Let's go gentlemen,'' one sang out. ``This is the last of them. Let's get her  to bed.'' 
Several offcers were not as wise as their non­coms. ``You men, look alive,'' a lieutenant  shouted. 
``Fucking rich boy aristocrat,'' one of the soldiers mumbled, ``if it wasn't for them, we  wouldn't have this damnable war.'' 

1918 16 
They all knew the zeppelin was L 38, Commander Buch's ship. There had been  apprehension as to its arrival when it failed to arrive with the rest of the squadron hours  earlier. Maybe Commander Buch's luck had finally run out. Old hands were glad L 38 was  one of the newer models, and generally easier to handle. As predicted, the ship bore in on  a long gradual slope. At about fifty meters altitude Buch allowed it to rotate slowly, so its  head was into the wind. Two engines were still and only one gave out a healthy growl. The  airship could not advance against the wind or even hold its own. Pushed backwards, she  hit nose high. The tail wheel dug into the ground and plowed a deep furrow. As the nose  fell the control gondola wheel hit hard and bounced high. The ground crew grabbed for the  mooring lines and held fast. Had Buch not made a tail first landing the ship would have  been uncontrollable and blown against a shed or some other obstruction and, more than  likely, exploded. Even as it was, the wind made each of the ground crew feel like ants trying  to subdue a tiger. 
As the airship began to stabilize, three horse­drawn ambulances rushed to the main  hatchways, medics unloaded the wounded, and dead. They passed stretchers out the hatch­  ways to others walking alongside. Before they reached the shed the ambulances were loaded  and gone. The ground crew worked fast and hard but was careful to avoid any incident. 
Soon the L 38 was nestled in the hangar and the doors shut. The ground crew, except for the  senior CPO, was dismissed and technicians brought in to assess the damage. It was strangely  quiet in the huge building. Sounds trailed a muted echo and most of the men spoke softer,  as if in church. 
Buch climbed out of the gondola. He still wore his thick gloves, scarf and heavy padded  leather overcoat, necessary against the high altitude cold. He had changed in the last three  years. Lines coursed across his face like cracks in old leather; his hair and beard were now  more gray than brown, his walk was stooped and he favored his right knee slightly because  of arthritis. 
``Tell your men they did an excellent job, as usual, Chief, '' Buch said to the senior 
NCO. 
``Thank you sir,'' he said with a salute, then turned to transfer this praise to his men. 
Buch stood alone for a moment as the storm of maintenance men and inspectors hurried  around him. 
``We may have set a new altitude record,'' Lieutenant Frederick Diehl, the L 38's first  offcer, said. 
Buch started to pull off his gloves one finger at a time. ``I would rather not have lost  a man in the process,'' he said simply. The oxygen mask of the tail gunner had failed. The  boy slowly passed out and quietly died. He was nineteen. 
Buch spotted Eric Dantzler. ``Eric, come here,'' he shouted. Dantzler quickly walked  over to the commander. ``Number three engine is still misfiring on one cylinder. One and  four cut out at seven thousand meters and we never got them restarted. Two works fine. 
Corporal Herzog played with the throttle and kept it going,'' Buch told him. 
Dantzler was grim. He considered every engine failure a personal affront to his skill and 

1918 17  knowledge. ``I'm going to call the shop and demand those crankcase heaters I requested.'' 
Buch turned to Diehl, ``Let's go to debriefing.'' 
Lieutenant, now Commander, Hoffman was still in charge of intelligence. Debriefing  was done in a crisp military manner, both men adding their statements to the report that  would be forwarded to High Command. When complete, it would be sterile, sanitized and  military, and in their memory, quite different. 
It was a bungled mission from the beginning. Buch couldn't blame it on the High 
Command, as he had planned most of it. The concept was to launch at midnight in order  to bomb a convoy due in Folkstone at 0300. The zeppelins would arrive at 0630, just as the  sun was coming up, catching the antiaircraft batteries at their worst, the ships at the docks,  and the air interception crews still in their beds. There were to be light winds coming from  the southwest and a solid cloud ceiling at 2500 meters. The zeppelins would approach the  target hidden by the clouds, descend to 2000 meters, drop their bombs, climb back to 3000  meters and race for home. It was a good plan, if everything went right. 
Soon after launch, L­38's number three engine developed an ignition miss it only seemed  to have in a combat flight, never in ground test runs. Dantzler had been driven half mad  trying to determine the problem. With the engine producing only half power L 38 started  to fall back. Over the Channel the light head winds picked up to 15 --- 20 knots, further  slowing the squadron and forcing L 38 further behind. As it came over the target two hours  behind schedule, it was greeted by clear blue skies and thick, heavy flak from gunners now  wide awake, having had their morning cup and a good breakfast. The rest of the squadron  had already dumped their bombs and were heading home. L 38 was forced to climb higher,  reducing its bomb accuracy although this didn't really matter, as the promised convoy was  detained a full day and was not there anyway. After dumping ballast, they turned and  headed for home. It was then a gunner spotted the airplane approaching from the north. It  was flying at approximately 3500 meters, which placed it above the zeppelin. An aircraft  attacking from above had all the advantages: L 38 could be doomed unless it clawed for  altitude. 
Buch ordered ballast dumped and the race began. The crew felt the elevator rush in  their stomachs and swallowed hard to relieved the pressure in their ears. They checked their  oxygen so they could breathe, and fastened their cold weather clothes as the temperature  plunged below zero. The zeppelin rose, 3000 meters, 3500 meters, 4000 meters. 
The airplane passed beneath them and began a slow zig­zag climb. 
It flew for a few miles, then made a hundred and eighty degree turn, still climbing. It  was like a man going up a flight of stairs. 
As the fighter closed the gap, Buch ordered the L 38 higher, 4500 meters, 5000 meters. 
He was well above 15000 feet. Still the de Havilland kept its relentless climbing zig­zag. The  crew felt the sting as the temperature dropped. Oxygen masks were now strapped tightly to  their faces. Valves were hastily opened allowing the life­giving gas to flow. The compression  process that filled their tanks allowed evil smelling fumes to permeate the gas and more than  one crewman would be lifting the mask to puke. 

1918 18 
Buch ordered the L 38 engines to full and ordered the nose raised to increase the speed  of his climb. As they passed through the 6000 meter mark he expected to see the DH­4 fall  back to the earth. 
In the thin air, sounds traveled slower and the engines sounded mute. The men stood  motionless as an eerie groan filled the ship followed a high­pitched screech. The sound was  unnerving even to veterans who knew it was the structure contracting from the cold and the  gas bags expanding because of altitude. The 8 bags of highly­flammable hydrogen gas were  now pressing and straining against the inner frame. If one of the bags ruptured the airship  could climb no higher and would come under the guns of the pursuing airplane. If more than  one bag burst the ship would start a long plunge to the earth more than four miles below,  and nothing could stop it. At 6200 meters the needles of the pressure gauges of all eight gas  bags moved beyond the red marks of maximum allowable pressure. 
At 6345 meters number two engine stopped. Soon after this, tail gunner Herman 
Freeman's oxygen tank, which had been slowly leaking for hours, ran out. Herman started  to breathe heavily, then noticed blackness, squeezing in until he felt he was looking down  a tunnel. At 6496 meters he was dead. His body started to freeze. Fellow crewmen would  have to pry his frozen fingers from his gun with a screwdriver. 
Buch looked behind. The de Havilland was still going back and forth back and forth  like a hunting dog flushing out its prey. 
``Damn it,'' Buch shouted, removing his mask momentarily, ``higher!'' 
The men looked at each other. Their labored breathing not entirely caused by the lack  of oxygen. 
Diehl stood beside Buch gazing at the airplane that would soon be close enough to  open fire. He lifted his mask slightly, ``What is that thing?'' 
What they could not know was this de Havilland DH­4, normally a two­seat observation  or bomber aircraft, had been specially equipped as a zeppelin hunter. The rear seat had  been removed and oxygen tanks installed to allow the pilot to survive at high altitude. The  oxygen was heated and fed into a helmet like those worn by undersea drivers. Extra batteries  were installed to provide heat for an experimental flight suit. The rear machine gun and  mount were now on the upper wing, pointing up at a forty­five degree angle and fired by the  pilot from a lever in the cockpit. It still retained the twin Lewis machine guns firing through  the propeller. The ammunition was the new incendiary type. The engine was a redesigned 
Roll Royce with 20 more horsepower and a pair of superchargers for high altitudes. The 
British expected the aircraft to be able to fly above 25000 feet. 
The pilot was not exactly having an easy time of this. His heated suit worked errati­  cally; his left leg felt as if it was on fire, while his buttocks felt frozen solid. Moisture from  his breath froze on the glass visor of his helmet. The zeppelin above looked like a large dark  blob. If there been any clouds in the sky he doubted he would be able to pick it out at all. 
A horrible squeaking sound could be clearly heard above the throb of the engine. Still, he  was gaining, and in a few minutes would be in a position to fire. 
The airship continued to rise, 6600 meters, then another hundred. The needles on the 

1918 19  pressure gauges of all eight cells were now firmly planted on their maximum stop pins. You  could almost smell fear like escaping gas, as a few of the crew began to cry softly. At 6789  meters, number four engine sputtered and died. A few seconds later number three, already  sick, started to cough and choke. The forward speed of the zeppelin fell away. If it slowed  too much there wouldn't be enough air passing over the control surfaces to steer by, and it  would become a fat, stationary target. 
The DH 4 pilot watched the blob get bigger. ``Now I have you,'' he muttered, as he  felt for the handle to fire the gun on the upper wing. He heard the gun chatter and felt  the vibrations. Then it stopped abruptly, jammed. ``God damn,'' the pilot shouted in his  helmet. ``Fuck, fuck, fuck,'' he continued to shout, hitting the handle in frustration. 
In the zeppelin, the horrified crew watched the tracer bullets, any one of which meant  a fiery death, arching into the sky toward their craft. The bullets started to fall back to  earth only meters below the zeppelin. 
``Dump ballast,'' Buch ordered. Once again, the zeppelin shot upwards. 
The de Havilland pilot began his zig zag climbing routine. He would force the zeppelin  above its pressure ceiling, climb above it and kill it with his forward firing guns. 
The deadly chase continued 7000 meters, 7200 meters, 7500 meters. At 7657 meters 
Buch heard the words he dreaded: ``Pressure dropping. Cell seven!'' 
Cell seven had ruptured. Hydrogen was now rushing through the upper part of the  airship's envelope trying to find an opening to the outside. The game was over and they had  lost. They could climb no more. 
In the DH 4, the squeak that had been worrying at lower altitudes rose in intensity. 
The superchargers were oiled by a small tank no bigger than a cigarette box. The designers  had mounted these tanks in direct line with a vortex generated by the engine cowl. The  oil had gelled from the cold and was no longer reaching the bearings. The squeak stopped  abruptly followed by a sharp pop. The left supercharger froze solid and the engine snapped  the drive­chain like a piece of thread. Without the supercharger the Rolls engine suffered  the same fate as Herman Freeman. The DH 4 was now a glider and started its long journey  to the ground. The pilot threw a salute to the zeppelin as the plane nosed down. ``I'll get  you the next time,'' he said. 
Inside the L 38 the crew shouted and cheered. Buch ordered the zeppelin to vent gas  in the other cells and ordered the riggers to fix the tear in number seven. As they were well  over the Channel, further pursuit seemed unlikely. Buch ordered an altitude of 2000 meters. 
They had used most of the ballast and were running on only one good engine. Even with a  brisk tailwind it would be a long trip home. 
The debriefing completed, Buch and Diehl rose to go. Commander Hoffman was writ­  ing: ``Casualties totaled one dead of asphyxiation during combat, one broken arm and a  minor concussion during landing.'' 
``Do you know if we hit anything?'' Buch asked. 
``Don't know,'' Hoffman replied, ``clouds moved over the target about 0900.'' 

1918 20 
Buch and Diehl returned to headquarters and told the company clerk. ``Run over to  shed 3 and find out how long `38 will be down.'' 
Buch sat behind the desk that formerly belonged to Weis. Diehl plopped into an  overstuffed chair without asking permission. Buch unlocked the lower desk drawer and  pulled out two bottles of cognac, one of which he tossed to Diehl. Buch pulled the cork of  his bottle with his teeth and took a long gulp of the liquid fire. He leaned back and propped  his feet on the desk. 
``If the Brits have any more of those things, we are going to have trouble, my friend,''  he said to Diehl. 
Diehl took a swig from his bottle. ``We held our own today.'' 
``Pure luck,'' Buch said bitterly, ``pure luck. Something broke on that DH. Had it not,  you and I would be fish food.'' 
Both knew the writing was on the wall. The zeppelin, which held such promise at the  beginning of the war was no longer a viable weapon. In 1915, zeppelins roamed unmolested  throughout Europe, the weather their worst enemy. Although their effciency as bombers  was questionable, they hit hard at enemy morale. The Germans could strike at France, 
Belgium, England and even Russia any time they chose. Europe's capitals had seen the  giants overhead and their citizens run in panic from falling death. 
The Allies learned to retaliate. First, artillery men pointed their guns skyward and  using the timed fuses designed to shower infantry with shrapnel, began developing accurate  and effective anti­aircraft fire. They sent airplanes armed with grenades to chase the zep­  pelins. One had destroyed a zeppelin that climbed out of the clouds under it. The pilot said  his wheels touched the back of the monster as he threw grenades over the side. The blast  tossed the little plane like a leaf in a whirlwind and the pilot was lucky to come down alive. 
The war accelerated the evolution of the airplane design and soon the primitive box­  kites with speeds of barely sixty miles an hour gave way to the powerfully engined planes  with forward mounted machine guns stalking the skies. 
In 1916, someone came up with the clever idea of coating bullets in phosphorus that  ignited as they left the gun barrel, the incendiary bullet. They left a clear trail in the sky,  and became known as tracers. The Allies now had the means of putting a burning match to  the highly inflammable zeppelin. Flaming death, the nightmare of zeppelin crews, was now  closer to reality. 
The Zeppelin Company countered with lighter, faster airships capable of out­climbing  any Allied aircraft and flying well above anti aircraft fire. The German Army complained it  could build and equip an entire squadron of planes for the price of one zeppelin. Unfortu­  nately technology moved at a stately pace in the zeppelin world, while with winged aircraft  it bounded ahead. The zeppelins took so long to build they were obsolete before they were  airborne. By 1917, it was very apparent the zeppelin was now a failure as a weapon of war. 
Before his death, even Count von Zeppelin had abandoned his invention and turned much of  the Zeppelin facilities to the design and production of Gotha twin­engine winged bombers. 
Buch and Diehl knew, as did most zeppelin men, they were a small sideshow in the circus 

1918 21  of the war. 
There was a knock on the door and PO2 Shultz stuck his head in. ``Senior Chief Mohne  says 38 will be down for a week to ten days,'' he said. ``And there is a man from headquarters  to see you, sir.'' 
The man who entered was built like a blockhouse and dressed in a dirty, mud­splattered,  black leather, overcoat. Goggles hung from his neck, their outline etched on his face. He  snapped to attention and saluted, his heels clicked loudly. ``Staff Sergeant Edward Peiterson,  sir. I have a dispatch for Commander Otto von Buch.'' 
``I'm Captain Buch.'' 
``Your eyes only, sir,'' he said, not even glancing at Diehl. 
Diehl shrugged, put the cork back in the bottle and said, ``I'll wait outside.'' 
``I'm afraid I'll need to see some identification, sir,'' the big NCO said, after the door  had closed. Buch complied, thinking the security a bit much. 
The NCO handed him a dispatch folder and a piece of paper, which Buch signed. ``My  orders, sir, are to remain until you have read the document. Then you must sign stating you  have read and understand the contents.'' 
``More nonsense,'' Buch thought taking a red envelope from the pouch and removing  the dispatch. The color drained from his face as he read. The dispatch rider noticed this,  knowing military commanders believed the security measures a nuisance until they read what  was required of them. 
Buch's hand shook as he signed the paper handed him by the sergeant. ``Will you  require anything, sergeant?'' he asked. 
``A warm meal and gasoline for my motorcycle,'' he replied with a hint of cheerfulness. 
``I must return to Hamburg.'' 
``Thank you, sergeant. See the clerk on your way out,'' Buch said. 
``Yes sir,'' the NCO said saluting. 
When the door shut, Buch walked to the window and parted the curtains. Under the  window, hidden by the curtains was a small wall safe. He spun the knobs to the proper  combination and opened the door. He read the dispatch again before putting it in the safe. 
Streng Geheim, 
Your eyes only 
January 9, 1918 
From:Captain Peter Strasser, Commander, his Majesty's Naval Airship Division, 
Nordholz 
To: Captain Otto von Buch, commander, 12th Naval Aero Squadron, Elmsdorf 

1918 22 
The German High Command has decided to revisit the plan you submitted 
November 29, 1914. Please amend the plan to reflect advances in industry and  strategy as stated in enclosure (1). Submit to this offce no later than February 
1, 1918. All reference to this subject is coded Volant. 
This subject is classified Top Secret, and all information, documentation and  correspondence are to be handled in accordance with Imperial war Department,  directive 77--3458--18. 
End 
After he placed the dispatch in the safe, he searched around at the bottom of a pile of  folders and removed one with the cover name of `Operational plan for the strategic use of 
Airships' closed the safe, and stood up, looking at the document in his hands. 
Elmsdorf was no longer just a sideshow. They had moved to center ring, star attraction. 
``Shultz,'' he yelled. The clerk poked his head in the door. ``Get Commander Gerber  in here and tell Diehl to come in, too.'' 
A few minutes later Commander Gerber, the executive offcer, second in command,  and Captain of L 39, entered the room with a puzzled Diehl behind him. 
``Diehl, you are now captain of L 38 until further notice,'' Buch announced solemnly. 
``Gerber, you will be acting commander for the next two weeks.'' 
Both men nodded, confused. ``I have a lot of work to do and it won't get done here,'' 
Buch said. ``If there is trouble, I'll be at my home. Contact me only if there is an emergency.'' 
``Captain, is there anything we can do to help?'' Diehl asked, trying to discern what  was going on. 
``I'll let you both know in good time,'' was all Buch would say. 
Buch packed his bags, deciding it was too late to start for home. Besides, there  was somewhere else he needed to go. Normally Shultz would act as his driver, but Buch  preferred to drive himself after hours. He carefully locked his room and took the keys to  his car. Although assigned a Styer staff car for his personal transport, he preferred his little 
Opel. It usually got him where he wanted to go. The cool air had gotten to the little car and 
Buch almost broke his arm cranking it. Eventually the motor coughed and started. Buch  climbed in and went to Shed Ten. 
Shed Ten had also changed in the last three years: a larger dining hall, more private  rooms, a small hotel and indoor plumbing. Although larger, and more luxurious, there was  something missing. Gone forever were the raunchy freewheeling times of the early war days. 
Now more fights broke out and the fun had a nastier edge to it. There was still the raised  dining area for offcers, but it had a folding wall where the railing had been, to separate the  two groups. Some of the new offcers thought this was a good idea. Buch was not among  them. He sat at the table in a corner usually reserved for him. He saw a few junior offcers  who would never have joined the commander unbidden and a few older friends who would  greet him but, recognizing his mood, leave him alone. 

1918 23 
His trips to Shed Ten had become ritualistic. A waitress, either Bertha or Florence  would bring him his personal stein filled with his favorite beer. He would order his meal,  having memorized the menu a long time ago. Then he would raise his glass in a silent toast  to the Black Wall. 
The portraits of the Kaiser and Count von Zeppelin were still there, faded slightly, and  dusty. But when the first zeppelin went down, a photograph of it and a list of the crewmen  lost was framed and posted on the wall. This was joined by a second and third, and so  on. Buch's eyes scanned the numbers of the zeppelins and the commanders, L 24, Capt. 
Sheaffer, L 31, Capt. Ariel, L 27, Capt. Brubaker, L 35, Capt. Jensen, L 28 Capt. Molson,  and L 33 Capt. Loughed. The names of the crews could only be read up close. From any  distance the lists tended to merge into a blurry accusation. The center picture was a little  larger than the others and showed a picture of the captain as well as the zeppelin. It read, 
L 41, Weis, Captain, 12th Naval Airship squadron. Weis had lost his ship with all hands in  a storm while ferrying it to Friedrichshafen for maintenance. Buch's eyes always moved to  the lower right part of the wall: L 42, Capt. Fritz. 
He remembered the night. Three airships on a milk run. The weather perfect. Even  the lights of the city were on as they approached undetected. Their bombs actually struck  the target and all three zeppelins were well on their way home before the British woke up. 
L 38 was cruising comfortably at 2000 meters. L 43 to her rear and to the left, L 42, Fritz's  ship was off to the right at 1500 meters. The moon was bright and the stars shone like  diamonds. Below them lay a solid plain of cloud dotted with the occasional mesa and valley. 
The clouds flowed and ebbed like a living gray ocean. It was a scene where even hardened  zeppelin men would be found staring wistfully out windows marveling at the beauty that  only a handful of human beings were privileged to see. 
Fritz liked to play in the surf, positioning his zeppelin so it skimmed the surface of  the cloud layer, causing a cloudy wake like a boat's. He would plunge into a cloud and out  the other side like a giant playful dolphin. It was harmless and Fritz's crew loved it. The  trip home was routine and, except for the helmsman and elevator man, no one really had  anything to do. Buch and Diehl were talking quietly about vacationing on Lake Constance 
(where the zeppelin plant was) and occasionally looking out the windows. Buch glanced  out, watching L 42 skim the clouds. Fritz was the best man he ever trained and they were  close friends. Buch let his imagination run wild. His daughter would come of age in a few  years and she did have a terrible crush on Fritz. He would be proud to call him son. They  were to meet at Shed Ten after the flight and Diehl had started to talk about a large slice of  pork with his name on it. Buch stared ahead hoping to catch a glimpse of the Belgian coast  through the clouds. 
``Where's Fritz?'' Diehl asked. 
Buch moved to the window looking at the spot where L 42 should be. 
Buch shrugged: ``Probably dropped back or below us. We'll see him at base.'' 
They never saw him again. L 42 vanished without a trace. 
Buch took his eyes from The Black Wall. He'd talked, joked, eaten and drunk with all 

1918 24  those men. He wondered how long it would be until his name was there, too. 
The ritual entered the phase where Otto von Buch, decorated offcer who had faced  death many times, was suddenly flooded with fear. He had to physically fight to keep his  hands from shaking and concentrate to calm his voice. 
``Is Mariah available?'' he asked meekly. 
The chubby, matronly, waitress of the day gave him a knowing smile. ``I'm sure she  will be available for you, Commander,'' she said in a voice barely above a whisper, ``but I'll  check.'' 
Buch knew his face was flushed and he was filled with an overwhelming feeling of  embarrassment and guilt. He should leave, but the need, the overpowering need, anchored  him. He glanced at the other men in the room, men he commanded, whose lives depended  on him. They would sanction almost any perversion, but how would they feel about him if  they knew? 
The need in him was more pressing than any narcotic. 
Florence returned. ``Mariah is waiting,'' she said. 
He ate his meal, paid his bill and then, when it appeared no one was looking, quietly  slipped down the hall leading to Mariah's room. In reality, his relationship with Mariah was  common knowledge and her business suffered as most of the men avoided her out of respect  for the commander. They saw nothing wrong with this. But they did not know --- must not  know --- what went on behind that locked door. 
He quietly knocked and was greeted by a sweet voice. ``Come in.'' 
He entered and carefully locked the door behind him. He began to feel safe. In daylight  the room would look small and seedy, but now it was illuminated by a single candle on a  bedstead and the glow of a small potbellied stove in the corner. It was a woman's room with  only three pieces of furniture: an ornate dressing table with a mirror mounted to its back,  on which lived a community of feminine bottles and boxes, a bedside table for the candle  and a rather large alarm clock, and a small quilt­covered bed. On it sat a young girl dressed  in a silk chemise with her legs folded under her. It wouldn't take a Freud to notice the girl  bore a striking resemblance to Buch's long dead wife, and his very­much­alive daughter. 
Her name was Mariah Periot, originally from a small village in Belgium. Slim and  shapely, with long dark hair, she had been a prostitute for eight of her 23 years. She was  also hopelessly in love with Buch, which, although she tried to conceal it, was painfully  obvious to her companions. She knew Buch did not love her, but he needed her. When this  need was over, she would be less than a memory. They had nothing in common except his  secret. 
They did not speak and often spent the entire night without saying a word. She rose  and quietly began to remove his clothes, first his coat, then his shirt. Then she would kneel  and remove his boots and pants. Naked, he would climb under the covers of the small bed  and she would climb in beside him. After blowing out the candle they would lie together in  the room lit only by the glow from the stove. She would lightly stroke his back, feeling him 

1918 25  relax. In time he would roll over facing her, gather her to him, bury his head between her  breasts and weep. She would hold him to her and stroke his hair, wondering what terrible  monsters fought in his head, listening to his sobs and feeling the warmth of his tears on her  bosom. This was his need. If the other men knew, he would no longer command their respect  and then he could not control their bodies. He would sob himself to sleep; sometimes waking  in the middle of the night to make love to her. He was always gentle. She wished at times  he would take her roughly, urgently, passionately. She wanted to awaken those emotions in  him. ``Maybe someday,'' she thought. For now, they shared a secret that she would never  reveal. She rested her cheek on his brow, still stroking his hair and silently cried, too. 
Shed Ten was a different place in the morning. This was reflected in the faces of  the whores, who now sat with their beaus, eating breakfast. They had survived a night  of business, now they must survive a day of life. The sun pouring through the windows  highlighted details best hidden by the dark. 
Buch was an exception to this rule. He came down the stairs dressed immaculately and  looking the picture of a proper German offcer. Mariah followed like a worshipping puppy. 
He had made love to her in the morning and she was very happy. He had paid her more than  she could make in a week, as if it would guarantee silence. She pretended to be grateful, but  in reality, it hurt deeply. She would rather not except the money, didn't want his money. 
``Commander, would you like to join me?'' cried a voice from a table by a window. 
Buch recognized Erik Dantzler's voice, but found him hard to spot in the harsh morning  light. ``And you too, Fraulien Periot.'' 
Both sat at the table with Dantzler. Mariah was delightfully shy around Dantzler. 
Unlike most of the men, he treated all the girls like ladies. ``Order what you like. We'll let  the firm pick up the bill.'' 
``How can you eat like that and still stay so skinny?'' Buch laughed. He was eating  six eggs, bacon, ham, biscuits, a glass of milk and a stein of coffee. With wartime prices, his  breakfast must have cost a fortune. 
``I stay skinny climbing all over those gasbags of yours,'' Dantzler replied. 
Dantzler and Buch chatted while Mariah picked at her food and smiled. When the  men settled down to sip their coffee, she excused herself, gave Buch a small peck on the  cheek and headed upstairs. When she was gone, Dantzler leaned forward and asked Buch, 
``Old 38 was beaten­up pretty badly. What the hell happened?'' 
Buch described the flight and the chase by the DH 4. Only this time it wasn't in nice  clean military terms. 
When Buch had finished, Dantzler sat back, ``Sounds rough. I threw a number of ideas  at my offce on how to get those engines to run at higher altitudes. Some will go into the  new super zeppelin.'' 
``We have to get them into the field now.'' Buch said as he finished and stood. 
``I have been ordered to attend a meeting at head offce next week,'' Dantzler told him. 
``I'll see what I can do.'' 

1918 26 
``I can ask for no more,'' Buch replied putting on his coat and gloves. With a wave he  disappeared out the door. 
Dantzler looked at the large zeppelin model over the bar, thinking: ``It's a shame to  send brave men like that up in death traps like those.'' 
He finished his coffee, paid his bill, threw on his coat and plunged into the January  morning. He had expected Buch to be long gone, but this was not the case. Buch appeared  to be in a life­or­death struggle with the little Opel. The Opel was winning. The commander  was unloading a pile of expletives that would have made a senior NCO blush, as he bent  over the front, cranking the starting handle. The engine sputtered and died, sputtered and  died. 
``Let me get mine started, then I'll give you a hand,'' Dantzler yelled across the lot. 
Dantzler walked to his car, a 1913 Stutz Bearcat that he had shipped from America in his  last year of college. He reached out to the dashboard, flipped the ignition and set the choke. 
Stepping to the front, he engaged the starter handle and gave it a crank. The engine caught  and roared into life. He adjusted the choke until it purred like a kitten. This little show  exasperated Buch. ``How do you do that?'' he asked in frustration. 
``The Bear and I understand each other,'' Dantzler yelled back. 
Dantzler came over and opened the hood of the Opel, touched this, felt that, yanked  the other thing and shouted orders to Buch to crank. He finally pulled off the little rubber  tube that led to the carburetor and told Buch to crank again. ``I suspect,'' he said, ``that 
Petty Offcer Shultz drank the alcohol I told him to put in your tank.'' 
``Well, he can think about his actions when I order him to retrieve this pile of junk,'' 
Buch replied. 
``I'll give you a ride back to the base,'' Dantzler said, with a nod toward his car. 
Buch, who had no qualms at all in riding a zeppelin at eighty miles an hour, felt a  little uneasy at riding in the 'Bear'. It was built like a Grand Prix racer. A little circle of  glass served as the windshield for the driver. Stretched canvas fenders protected the driver  and passenger from flying mud. The only concession Dantzler made for pedestrians, was the  pair of kerosene lamps so he could drive at night. He had a reputation of driving the car like  a mad man. 
Dantzler dug into a leather saddlebag mounted on the spare tire hanging from the  back of the car and produced a duster, leather helmet, well­worn scarf and a pair of goggles. 
``Here,'' he said, handing them to Buch, ``you'll need these.'' 
Dantzler got behind the wheel while Buch climbed into the passenger seat; both bun­  dled from head to foot. Only their eyes peeking out through their goggles denoted there were  people in the clothes at all. Dantzler reversed, backed into the road, jammed the gearshift  into first and took off at high speed, causing the rear to fishtail. The car quickly accelerated  to above forty­miles­an­hour as the suspension threatened to throw them out. Buch clung  to the grab handles, putting a death grip on them, which was just as well. 
At speed the big engine produced a throaty throb which Buch could feel in his balls. 
Dantzler would brake going into a turn and accelerate out, which made the rear drift out­ 

1918 27  wards. He would steer into the skid and slide through each turn. In a long straightway, the 
Bearcat leaped ahead. ``Sixty miles per hour,'' Dantzler yelled over the noise, ``almost three  kilometers a minute.'' 
Buch was not impressed. 
Dantzler braked heavily at the next bend and deftly downshifted. Buch noticed the  gearshift handle was held together with a length of pipe bolted at the top and bottom. 
Around another bend loomed a farmer, walking a cow. Dantzler swerved and narrowly  missed both, mud splashing off the wheels. Buch looked back to see the farmer angrily  shaking his fist. As they reached the base, Dantzler slowed enough so the guard could  recognize them and wave them in. If he had wanted them to stop, they wouldn't have been  able to. Dantzler brought the Bearcat to a screeching halt outside the headquarters building. 
``There you are,'' he announced as Buch lowered his mud­spattered body to the ground. 
``You need a top and a proper windshield,'' Buch chided. 
``What? Soon you'll suggest some kind of heater, or maybe something to cool us down  in the summer,'' Dantzler started to rant. ``A gadget to shift the gears for me, or even a 
Victrola so I can listen to music while I drive.'' He patted the cars hood. ``I like a man's  car. A good rugged American car,'' he said. ``You should try it, Commander.'' 
Buch smiled thinking that with the war American cars were definitely at a premium. 
``Ha, the way you talk, you and Herr Darhower have made this a German car,'' he joked. 
``Besides, what kind of American name is Stutz anyway?'' 
``Damn, you're right, Commander'' Dantzler replied. ``If you want I'll take you home. 
It would only take a half­hour.'' 
``No,'' Buch said quickly, ``that's all right. Thanks anyway.'' 
With a wave Dantzler threw the Stutz into gear and roared off. 
Buch walked into his offce. ``Shultz,'' he yelled. 
Shultz snapped to attention knowing full well from the tone of Buch's voice he was in  trouble. 
``Go to the stables and have them hitch up my horse,'' Buch ordered. ``Then go to 
Shed Ten and haul back the Opel.'' 
``Yes sir. I'll get the motor pool. . . '' 
``No, I said you go get it. Something about an absence of alcohol in the gas tank.'' 
Dantzler slowed the Bearcat as he entered the village of Elmsdorf. There simply were  too many people on the streets. They practically ignored traffc, as most of it was horse­  drawn, and horses usually had the good sense not to run over anyone. It was a small town,  typical of the area, a mix of Dutch, Belgian, German and French, all were heard spoken  here. Its main street was lined with shops for all the necessities of rural life, a general store,  millinery, apothecary, and a bank dominating the main square. Local government buildings  filled in the rest like the city hall (which doubled as a police station and jail), and the new  fire station. Large churches at each end of town appeared as bookends for the town. Little 

1918 28 
Elmsdorf, like the rest of the country, reflected the wartime economy. Everything looked a  little old and dingy because the money wasn't there to fix anything. 
Dantzler turned down a side street and into a garage­like building next to the black­  smith's shop. A small stream flowed behind the building supplying power to a water wheel. 
The building had been the fire station at one time and still had a bell tower and firemen's  quarters, since turned into an apartment for the owner, Reinhold Darhower, the resident  blacksmith and mechanic, and his senile uncle. 
Darhower held the unique position of understanding the twentieth century technology  slowly encroaching all aspects of life. He could weld a cracked plow, repair a broken buggy,  shoe a horse, maintain Frau Weideman's clothes wringer or, in Dantzler's case, make unob­  tainable parts for the car. He was short and stocky, with a full beard that always had small  holes burned into it, and a swarthy complexion for no matter how hard he scrubbed, the  grime and grease never quite came out. Children hung about the place and Darhower had a  jar of candy to share with them, although he had to watch they didn't hurt themselves. He  played Father Christmas in the annual pageant. 
The back of the firehall had been converted into a machine shop, with lathes, drills,  saws and milling machines connected by leather drive belts to an elaborate system of shafts  and pulleys powered by the water wheel at the back of the building. A large forge meant  the building was cozy in winter and sweltering in summer. 
Both being mechanics, Dantzler and Darhower were friends from their first meeting. 
Dantzler often sent work from the base to Darhower, who had better tools and equipment. 
He had also helped Louis Darhower get a janitorial job at the base. 
Darhower heard the Bear's engine coming down the street and had the doors open so 
Dantzler could pull right in. ``Good day, Herr Darhower,'' Dantzler yelled, switching off the  engine. 
``Eric, my boy,'' Darhower said jovially, ``I have your handle for you.'' Darhower had  forged a new shifting handle for the Bear to replace the broken one. Buch had been right: in  the last three years the two of them had practically rebuilt the car, either fabricating parts,  or modifying parts from German cars. 
``Let us wait until the water drips off and she warms a bit,'' Darhower told him. ``Come,  have a cup of chocolate.'' 
Darhower lead Dantzler up the steps to the kitchen at the back of the house. The pair  sat at a table, while the smell of the heating chocolate filled the room. Dantzler had spent  hours at this table consuming gallons of hot chocolate and watching the water wheel turn  slowly in the creek. The men spoke of all manners of things as in the way of friends. 
``I saw that last ship coming in,'' Darhower remarked, placing a steaming cup in front  of Dantzler. ``It looked in pretty bad shape.'' It was not unusual for the talk to turn to  zeppelins. The townspeople were always interested in the giants that sailed their skies, and  zeppelin men were treated with respect. 
``L 38,'' Dantzler grunted. 
``Ah, Buch's ship.'' 

1918 29 
Dantzler told him the story as recounted by Buch, leaving out none of the details. 
``I don't think I would like that type of job,'' Darhower said. 
``L 34 didn't make it back at all,'' Dantzler said sadly. 
Darhower shook his lion­like head, ``All the fine young men. All for this stupid war.'' 
Then: ``Will there be any work for me?'' Darhower said with a wink. 
``Very possibly,'' Dantzler replied, ``it should be down for at least two weeks.'' 
The conversation turned to other things. They finished their chocolate and returned  to the garage, and began to disassemble the shifting mechanism. It was hours before the  new handle was in place. From outside came the clanking sound of Darhower's old lorry. It  was Louis returning from the base. He was bent and was thought to be something of the  village idiot. You had to strain to understand his speech. He worked at the base, making a  few Pfennigs a day sweeping up and emptying trash. 
Taking a match, Dantzler lit his headlamps, set the ignition switch and cranked the  starter handle. The `Bear' roared into life. Money was exchanged and Dantzler roared out  into the street with a wave. After he was gone, Darhower closed and locked the garage door,  carefully extinguished the lamps on the lower floor and went upstairs to join his brother. 
The two men did not speak as they went to a trapdoor in the roof of a hallway leading  to the loft and bell tower above. Louis grabbed a stick with a hook on the end and inserted  it in a ring in the ceiling and pulled down, lowering the trapdoor and a ladder attached to  it. Louis had straightened his back and changed his expression. He looked twenty years  younger. 
The loft was a typical attic found in homes all over Europe, usually the gathering­place  for dusty relics. This loft was no exception, directly under the bell tower was a small offce  with a desk, a filing cabinet, two chairs, wood stove and, on a shelf built on the front wall,  several cages holding live pigeons. It was a squeeze as the two men took their seats. The  pigeons gave an odor to the dank attic that was not unpleasant, and began a soft cooing in  response to the light. With newspaper and some sticks, Louis lit a fire in the tiny stove. 
``I found out Buch's ship is heavily damaged and down for at least two weeks. L 34  was lost,'' Reinhold Darhower said. 
``There doesn't seem to be any hurry to fix it and there aren't any missions planned I  can detect,'' Louis Darhower remarked, the slur in his speech gone. ``Rumor has it they are  thinking of disbanding the zeppelin squadrons.'' 
Both men spoke English. 
They spent the next hour writing a short message containing all this information. 
From a drawer Reinhold produced a book he used to encrypt the message. Louis was using  a small machine like a telegraph key, tapping out Morse code that came out in a series of  holes in a thin strip of cellulose. When he finished, he carefully wrapped the cellulose around  a toothpick, and inserted it into a small capsule barely a half­inch long and a quarter­inch  wide. The toothpick was pulled out and a cap screwed on. The original piece of paper with  the message was tossed into the stove. 

1918 30 
In the morning the capsule would be attached to the leg of one of the birds that would  then be freed through the trapdoor into the bell tower. Other pigeons lived in the bell tower  and one more would not be noticed. The bird would usually fly around the spire and then  fly west, across Holland, across the Channel to a small building on the English coast. The  trip would take about four hours. The capsule would be taken off its leg and handed to a  specialist who would unravel the tape and put it into a small machine. This allowed a light  to pass through the holes and projected these onto a screen where the dots and dashes were  read by a specialist who would then translate the message using a code book identical to the 
Darhowers'. The message was then routed to the proper intelligence agency. The Darhowers  had been sending messages like this every week since the spring of 1915. 
Their work done, the men put everything back in its place. Louis pulled out a pipe  from his pocket and lit it, while Reinhold poured himself some brandy. 
``If they disband the zeppelins, we'll be out of a job, eh Rein?'' Louis said, drawing on  the pipe and exhaling a cloud of sweet smelling smoke. 
``Good,'' Reinhold replied. ``I never could understand how helping the biggest group  of capitalists and imperialists the world has ever known, helps the world revolution.'' 
``Once the proletariat understand they are nothing but pawns in this war, they will  rise up. Look at Russia! The Germans helped foster the revolution and now the new Soviet  regime is a thorn in their side. Now revolution is ripe in Germany.'' Louis sat back with his  dreams. 
``Russia!'' his nephew snorted. ``A bunch of ignorant farmers. Lenin and Trotsky are  barbarian louts. They don't know true communism from the man in the moon!'' 
``I know,'' Louis tried to calm him,`` but we must start somewhere. First Russia, then 
Germany. Trust me, from the ashes of defeat Germany will rise and be more powerful.'' 
``Yes, I know,'' Reinhold said shaking his head. ``I have heard it all before, even  preached it to others, but I'm getting old and tired.'' 
``It will be soon, Rein. It will be soon,'' Louis said softly. 
Instead of reaching his home at the break­neck speed of sixty miles an hour in a half  hour, Buch was traveling at the much leisurely pace of a horse's walk. He was riding in  a covered buggy pulled by an elderly animal Buch had known as a foal and it didn't need  much guidance. Buch had been on the road nearly five hours, wrapped in a thick comforter,  sipping the hot coffee from his thermosflask, greeting people and enjoying the ride. 
The horse snorted, smelling his home stables. It turned onto the road leading to the 
Buch home. Buch watched the sun setting on his land. Although the land had been in his  family for generations, it had suffered from war and neglect, until his father had earned the 
Bismarck's' favor in the Franco­Prussian war. After the war he managed his lands better,  but even more important, profitably. With his new wealth, he began to invest in Germany's  new industry. And as he became rich instilled in his son a love of the land as well as a love  of science. 
The movement of the buggy gave Buch the illusion his house was coming out of the  woods to greet him. Once a castle stood here, and the remains of a moat were still there. 

1918 31 
His father had built a modest sized home on the site, a roomy cottage beside it, and a large  barn. 
As the buggy crossed the bridge over the moat, an old man ran into the road bran­  dishing a rifle. ``Identify yourself,'' he shouted. 
``Hans, It is me,'' Buch called back. ``Put the gun down before you hurt someone.'' 
``Ah, sir, so it is you,'' the old man said, shaking Buch's hand in greeting. Hans Kohler  and his wife had been fixtures on the estate since before Buch was born. ``Hans,'' came a  booming voice from the house. ``What are you doing?'' Frau Kohler's voice always filled 
Hans with dread. Buch assumed she had a first name, but he never heard it. The couple  lived in the cottage next to the main house and always had, taking care of the estate, and  more importantly, his family. 
Frau Kohler came down the stairs arms outstretched. She was a big woman, to say  the least, and Buch worried she would simply bowl him over someday and trample him into  the ground. She threw her bear­like arms around him and gave him a crushing hug while  kissing him on the cheek. 
``Hans,'' she shouted at her husband, ``put the boy's horse to bed.'' Although Buch was  nearly forty, Frau Kohler still considered him a child. It occurred once to Buch that when  he was a boy the Kohlers could only have been in their twenties, but he couldn't remember  them that way. Frau Kohler had assumed the role of mother after his own died giving birth  to his sister, Hanna. 
Hanna was four years younger than Buch, short and portly, her face was covered with  pockmarks left as a reminder of a bout with smallpox. Buch's skin had also been ravaged,  but to a lesser degree and his beard covered most of it. For him it added character; but it  removed her softness. Hanna had been a teacher in her youth, in love with a man who failed  to show at the altar and left her a broken­hearted spinster. Buch suspected another story. 
His father, believing the man to be a gold digger, had him run out of town. As brother and  sister they were never close, Hanna recognized Buch as the head of the household and Buch  was glad to have her as companion to his daughter. Hanna served as tutor and in a sense  was the mother the girl never had. She was a kind woman who poured all the love she had  into the child. 
``Papa!'' 
Buch watched Sherry, his daughter, descending the stairs angelically, all satin and lace  and grace. She came at him like a white comet and squeezed him tighter than even Frau 
Kohler had done. He returned her embrace noticing he could rest his cheek on the top of her  head. Sixteen and no longer a little girl, she was looking more like her mother every day. 
He was assailed by questions, asked faster than he could answer. Finally he raised his hands  in mock surrender, announcing: ``I'll be home for the next two weeks. It will be a working  holiday and when I'm in my study I don't want to be disturbed. Everyone understand?'' 
They all nodded. The buggy was unloaded. Buch carefully took the contents of his  case and locked them in the safe under the watchful eye of his daughter. If she was curious,  she didn't show it. She was raised in a military home and knew about of security. Unknown 

1918 32  to her father, Sherry had learned where the spare key was hidden, and had broken into the  safe a few years ago, but couldn't understand any of its boring documents. She never did it  again. 
At supper there was no employer --- employee relationship. Buch, as head of the house,  was called upon to say grace, and the family proceeded to eat. Frau Kohler complained  about shortages in the market place. Hans spoke about the increased crime; Sherry about  her friends at school and how this boy and that boy had gone off to war and how this girl's  cousin had died in battle. The thought of such an event happening to her father had never  entered her mind. To Buch the war seemed far away. It was good to be home. 

Ammi Orleans 
Berlin 1918 
Before the war Berlin attempted to upstage Paris as center of art and culture. The 
Berliners had more money, the one thing Paris lacked, springing from the new German  industrial, chemical and technical might and Berlin's art, theater, symphony and culture  flourished in newly renovated surroundings. But as culture grew, so did debauchery. After  the nouveau rich attended the theater, or the symphony, they could frequent opium dens,  gambling casinos and brothels grown to fill this need. During the war, culture faded while  debauchery flourished. 
Ammi Orleans had used this knowledge to become very rich. She was certainly the  richest black woman in Germany, if not the world. You would not find her name in any book  on finance, nor was she listed with the social elite of the age. She was, after all, a prostitute. 
Ammi had not always been a prostitute, but from the day of her birth, her life had lead that  way. 
She was born in the basement of a bordello in New Orleans, Louisiana. Her mother, 
Cajun Sarah Brown, contracted the most hazardous venereal disease for women in her pro­  fession, pregnancy. Abortion was available, but dangerous, and, besides, she had an ulterior  motive for having a baby. She claimed the father of the child was Billy Washington, a black  man who served the whore house as comedian, piano player, bartender and, occasionally,  bouncer. However, when Amy was born, it was obvious that her skin was too light to have  been fathered by Washington. 
Amy was raised in a world driven by lust, sex and money. She knew the going rate for  a blow job while most girls her age were having tea with their dolls. Her `father' treated her  like dirt, as he did all women, and Amy grew to hate him. He called her his little girl and  acknowledged himself as her father whenever he wanted to screw Sarah out of a few dollars  to keep from being beaten up by his creditors. 
Billy Washington's big dream in life was Paris. Somehow he believed that in Paris  he could find the success denied him in America. Unfortunately, money, both his own and  others, slipped through his fingers like sand. He was always trying for the big deal, the big  score, which he pursued like a man chasing his hat in a high wind. But then, when Amy  was ten years old, he finally caught the hat. 
Patty LaRue, the madam who ran the bordello, came to Sarah with an offer. Dr. 
Julius Magdule, a very rich, prominent customer, offered twenty dollars to have sex with 
Amy. This was a fairly large sum of money in those days and Sarah mentioned the offer to 
Billy. 

``Twenty bucks,'' he shouted, ``twenty bucks. You nuts woman? That old lecher leers  at Amy as if she be made of pure chocolate. He'd pay a cool hundred easy. Hell, he'd could  pay a thousand and never miss it.'' 
That's when it hit him. Dr. Magdule would indeed pay a thousand if it was proposed. 
Ignoring Sarah, he went to discuss it with Patty LaRue. She reluctantly agreed to the idea,  although she believed no man would pay a thousand dollars for any female. She was wrong. 
Dr. Magdule ranted and raged, but in the end he agreed. 
On the night of the tryst, Sarah Brown held her daughter close and murmured, ``It'll  be all right, don't you worry child.'' Billy offered his own words of encouragement: ``You do  what you're told, girl, or I'll beat you bloody!'' 
Then ten­year­old Amy Brown was given to the 54­year­old Magdule as some ancient  tribe sacrifices a virgin. 
In the morning, after he left the house, the conspirators divvied up the booty. The  house took the usual 50%, Billy took four hundred to buy tickets to Paris, Sarah the re­  maining hundred and Amy, who would be unable to walk for a week, received a new rag doll  which cost twenty­five cents. 
Magdule would use Amy three more times before they left for Paris, at a lower rate, of  course. She had earned over two thousand dollars for the little group in less than a month. 
Before the Washingtons (Sarah had decided to change her name) left for Europe, the doctor  had offered to buy Amy for fifteen hundred dollars. Billy thought it was a great idea, but for  the first time in her life Sarah stood against him. So on April 3, 1901 the Washingtons left  for Paris with their worldly possessions and less than a hundred dollars cash. Billy decided  a hell of a going away party in order and blew over three hundred bucks on it. 
For the first time in his life, he was right about something. He became an instant  success in the nightclubs and bistros of Paris and quite a celebrity among certain social  circles. In America he was another nigger; in France he was a novelty. He finally had all  he ever wanted: money, women and a certain amount of respect. He also had a few things  he didn't want, namely Sarah and Amy. Within months they found themselves out on the  street. Mr. Billy Washington simply wanted nothing to do with them. Sarah fell back unto  the only profession she had known, and joined a house run by a Mr. Lafeta. For a short  time her race was enough of a novelty to bring a good price, but she was getting older, had  started smoking opium and became addicted. Responsibility for supporting the family fell  on Amy. After a few years Sarah had sunk to the point where she could get no customers  and only by performing in certain `shows' was she able to bring in any money at all. Amy  saw one of her mothers `performances' where the co­star was a German shepherd. Two days  later Sarah was found floating face down in the Seine. 
At the age of thirteen, Amy was alone in Paris. Naturally, Mr. Lafeta fell into the  position as protector and guardian. Amy was different from her mother --- not only did she  bring professionalism to her job, she possessed a business sense far advanced of her years. 
Lafeta called her into his offce to tell her that mother had died and Amy had a home  within his house. Little Amy looked at him and smiled, ``You charge more for me than the 
other girls, yet you pay me less. That will stop.'' 
Lafeta looked shocked. ``You should be glad I put up with you at all,'' he screamed. 
``Madam Sofia will put up with me,'' she said simply. The mention of his principal  rival's name drove Lafeta to a frenzy and he slapped the upstart. The little girl didn't cry,  just stood there while her cheek slowly turned crimson. She stared at him with cold snake's  eyes, the smiled. ``Touch me again,'' she said sweetly, ``and I'll whisper a few words to one  of my lovers and they'll find you floating in the Seine --- with your dick in your mouth.'' 
A few weeks later those words came back to him when the police found Billy Wash­  ington in precisely that condition. 
After this, the relationship changed. Lafeta became more of a mentor than a boss and  was quick to take advantage of her mind. By the time she was sixteen, he was not afraid  to leave most administrative decisions to her. The other girls respected her. Some hated  her, others feared her. She treated them all fairly. Determined never to sink as low as her  mother. 
She had no serious relationships. Men were objects she used while they thought they  used her. Other women were simply competitors. Then she got a summons from Lafeta to  take care of a very rich, very special client. He asked Amy to do the job only because she  was his best. 
The client was Baroness Lily von Goss, second cousin to his royal highness, Kaiser 
Whilhelm. Amy had performed with women before, so she had no qualms there. The  baroness turned out to be a stunning blonde in her late twenties. She was so gentle and  talented that Amy truly lost control of herself, and their night together was the best she ever  experienced. It was not the sex, to which Amy thought she had long since become immune,  but the tender holding and affection the Baroness offered. For the first time in her life Amy  was excited about being with someone. It was at the end of the second week that Lily asked  her to go to Berlin with her. ``It's the most marvelous city in the world,'' she cooed. ``We  will be so happy there.'' 
Over the cries and pleas of Lafeta, Amy moved to Berlin, and for a few months, was  ecstatically happy. Lily set her up in a swank apartment and the two were inseparable. Lily  was better than a lover, she was also a friend. Amy had a talent for languages and soon  spoke passable German. For once in her life it seemed things were going her way. Then the 
Baroness solemnly announced her impending marriage to a Prussian General named Uvick. 
It was an affair of state, authorized by the Kaiser himself. Actually the Kaiser had arranged  it to keep his wayward cousin out of the reach of the press and scandal. ``Get rid of this  black bitch, or I will,'' Cousin Willie had said. 
Amy was given a substantial sum of money and then, among sobs and caresses, the 
Baroness vanished to a Prussian estate outside Vilna. 
Amy hurt for a while and even hated for a while, then turned to survival. She realized  that at eighteen, although experienced, she was too young to successfully establish a brothel  on her own in a foreign country. She did manage to buy her way into an established house  whose madam was well into her sixties. Here she operated as a silent partner, not required to 
service customers, although she frequently did so for the feeling of dominance she had over  men. It was in this way she met Douglas Adams, an American working in Germany. He was  a chubby middle­aged bearded man and an adequate lover. His tastes were straightforward  and not demanding, and his sense of humor often made Amy laugh. She liked him, and  he understood her. He seemed to know what she did and why, as if he had some secret  knowledge. 
``I want you to work for me,'' he said abruptly one night as he dressed. Amy had heard  this before, usually from foolish young men or even more foolish old men. She started to  voice one of the many stock apologies, but Adams cut her off. 
``Before you say anything,'' he began, ``let me explain. A few friends and I want to  buy the old Le Baron Hotel. It's expensive, very high class, but it doesn't turn a profit and  it's on the market. We think if you ran the place, made it into a very high class house, it'd  be a gold mine.'' 
``What makes you think I can manage it?'' Amy asked cautiously. 
Adams poured two glasses of bourbon from a side bar and handed one to her. It was a  strange business meeting. . . the middle­aged, suited, successful businessman and she naked  except for a chiffon jacket. 
``We know quite a bit about you, Amy Brown,'' he said. ``We know you practically run  this place and you're smart. We supply the cash, but otherwise are not involved. We split  the profit fifty­fifty, but only after you're established.'' 
Amy's instincts told her he was sincere, but there was something he wouldn't tell her,  something a bit shifty. Still her business sense was stimulated and anyway, this business was  shifty in the first place. 
``And just how much money are you and your friends willing to put up front?'' 
Adams took out a small notebook wrote upon it, tore off the sheet and handed it to  her. She glanced at the figure on the paper and had to restrain herself a gasp. It didn't take  her long to make up her mind. 
``All right, Mr. Adams. We are partners.'' 
``Very good, Miss Brown,'' Mr. Adams replied. ``Let me make a suggestion. You  should change your name. Something more exotic. French, perhaps. . . '' 
She laughed: ``Something more exotic than Amy Brown from New Orleans?'' 
``That's it,'' he exclaimed, ``Ammi Orleans.'' 
``I like it.'' 
``A toast then,'' he said touching his glass to hers, ``to Madam Ammi Orleans.'' 
The next year was a whirlwind. Next time Adams visited, he removed his coat, spread  documents before her and had her sign most of them. Two weeks later she moved into the 
Hotel, now renamed La Baroness, which was owned lock, stock and barrel by one Ammi 
Orleans. In came the carpenters, plumbers and electricians, and the place was turned into a  palace. By the end of 1913, 22 year old Ammi Orleans was proprietor of the best brothel in 

Berlin, complete with a nightclub, gaming rooms, thirty­two hardworking girls and a staff  of seven. Among her clientele were the royal heads of Germany, its top military and civilian  leaders and visiting dignitaries and businessmen of all nationalities. 
Mr. Adams still visited occasionally sometimes for sex, but always for business. He  had yet to take a cut from the profits, telling her the business was not yet established. Amy  was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Early in 1914 he made an unusual request: ``Some  pretty important people come here. It would be pretty easy to blackmail some of them.'' 
``So, that's it,'' Ammi thought. ``He's interested in blackmail.'' 
He continued: ``It might be wise to raise that concern to the police and the military. 
Have them check everybody to prevent it.'' 
Ammi was relieved. She had seen girls try to blackmail clients. Usually it didn't end  well for the girl, or the client. ``I know just who to talk to,'' she said as she undid her blouse. 
``You know,'' Adams said loosening his buttons, ``you're the first partner I've ever had 
I enjoy being screwed by.'' 
By the time war started, her establishment was not only popular, but secure. German  offcials knew her, and she them. Adams had finally begun to siphon off ten percent of the  profit. Aware he might have to leave Berlin, he made her promise she wouldn't fire Sydney 
Black, the pianist. 
``I told his folks I'd take care of him,'' Adams said with a shrug. 
He had requested she hire the man three years ago. Sydney Black was a tall young  black man who would have been thought handsome if his eyes reflected some intelligence. 
Ammi thought she would have to be crazy to hire him, but he had two hidden talents. He  turned out to be the best natural piano player she ever heard, he could make a keyboard  sing. He could hear a song and play it. Once a concert pianist visiting La Baroness played 
Bach. Sid then repeated the performance perfectly. His other talent was photography, taking  pictures and developing them. Ammi knew some of the girls posed for him and money was  being made from the sale of pornography. Ammi did nothing to discourage the practice as  the girls got most of it. Sid's total German vocabulary numbered maybe a dozen words and  even his English was hard to understand. Clients and most of the girls made a thousand  cracks at his expense and he usually had to be told a half a dozen times to do the menial  tasks for which he was responsible 
Adams quit Germany when America entered the war on the Allied side. It could have  meant trouble for Ammi and the other Americans working for her, including Sydney, but  she had friends at high places. By early 1918 prices were on the rise in Berlin and signs  of civil unrest were everywhere, but Ammi's business was booming. Adams had shown her  how to stash money in Swiss bank accounts and other investments so she could survive any  outcome. Germany might crumble around her, but she would never have to go hungry, or  sell her body again. 
The La Baroness was recovering from a rather wild weekend. The girls and staff  considered the beginning of the week as their days of rest. Monday was when everyone  pitched in to clean up after the carousing soldiers. Tuesday and Wednesday were quiet 
and leisurely and this Wednesday was no exception. Sydney was at the keyboard playing  something slow and melancholy and most of the girls lounged around wearing thick robes  that hid much of their charms, but protected them from the chill in the air from a blizzard  raging through the city. They were not exactly closed for business. Many of the regulars  preferred to come on these days, avoiding the mob of soldiers celebrating their leave. One  group came to La Baroness every Wednesday to enjoy cards, good Cuban cigars, fine French  wine and, perhaps, a warm bed and body. They were the senior staff of the German High 
Command, tasked with the job of winning a war that was supposed to be over years ago --- a  war they were trying to win after so much loss. 
The fifth room on the fifth floor was one of Ammi's finest. Large with high ceilings  and well lit, along one wall was a huge fireplace with a blaze that bathed the room in its  warmth and glow. On the velvet walls were hung works of art and comfortable chairs were  ready for card players who needed a break. Inside the room a Lieutenant was stationed  to relay the wants and needs of the group to Ammi's staff, while outside the door stood  two large sergeants to see no one disturbed those within. Two more were by the elevator  doors and another pair by the stairs. No one, except Ammi, was allowed on the floor unless  escorted. She would check and if any of the men in the room desired to spend the night,  would arrange for companionship. Centered in the room was a circular card table around  which were seated a succession of high­ranking offcers. These men had found a haven from  their life­and­death responsibilities. Uniform jackets either hung loosely on the chairs or  unbuttoned and undone on their shoulders. Some had taken off their boots and at least one  had unbuttoned his trousers allowing his a substantial stomach to blossom unfettered by  belt or corset. In this male place a good fart or belch would be met with praise. Military  protocol was put aside and you could say what you wanted. Getting mildly intoxicated was  acceptable; falling down drunk was considered vulgar. 
Wearing a long, tight, white silk gown that contrasted perfectly with her chocolate  skin, Ammi appeared to float across the floor as she playfully flirted with the men at the  table. She knew the effect she had on them, and made sure they were well cared for and  then excused herself. As she walked toward the elevator the guards admired the way the  silk caressed her body. ``I'd like to rent that for a night,'' one whispered. ``You can't afford  it,'' his companion replied. Ammi heard the whispers and although she couldn't make out  the words got the gist. She turned slightly and smiled a look so sexy both men could feel  themselves harden. Ammi liked that kind of power. 
There were only about ten or fifteen soldiers in he nightclub, most trying to charm  girls who couldn't care less. Sydney was playing a Scot Joplin tune, but you could tell his  heart wasn't in it. She moved to the bar and asked for a drink and then turned to survey  her domain. ``Amy girl,'' she thought to herself, ``you done arrived.'' 
``Ma'am,'' a voice brought back from her reverie. It was Sydney. 
``I is awfully tired,'' he said slowly. ``Can I go to bed?'' 
He was such a big child she found she couldn't be angry with him. ``Go along, Sydney,''  she said. ``Good night.'' 
As he shuffed off she turned to admire herself in the mirror behind the bar. 

Sydney carefully removed the loop of keys attached to his belt by a small chain from  his pocket and unlocked the basement door. ``He's funny about privacy,'' Adams had said  by way of explanation for this behavior. Ammi had the only other key locked in a desk  in her offce. Sydney carefully turned on the light and closed the door behind him. The  basement was lit by a series of bare bulbs hanging from the pipe­cluttered ceiling casting  harsh shadows on the stone walls. Water dripped from some of the pipes while a boiler and  furnace made snoring sounds in a far corner. The furnace and boiler was a huge cast iron  monster. Sydney went to it first, and threw open the door, exposing the inferno within. 
He played with a few levers to dump the ashes then, grabbing the coal scoop, proceeded  to feed the monster from a large pile of coal. After shoving the scoop back into the pile  he began a methodical search of the basement. Satisfied he was alone, he moved to the  opposite side where he kept his camera gear beside two wooden rooms. The smaller of these  contained a toilet, sink and shower; the larger was Sydney's home. He checked again for  any signs of life and then unlocked the door to his room. A faded lace curtain at the far  end concealed a closet where his entire wardrobe hung from a dozen wooden hangars. There  were pictures tacked up, helter skelter, mostly of naked young men and women engaged in  genuine depravity. Sydney locked the door behind him and sat on the bed, took a deep  breath and reached into the top drawer of his bureau and removed a small bottle of brown  liquid from which he took a large gulp. Wiping the excess off his mouth with his sleeve, he  looked around the tiny room. ``This is a hell of a fix for a Philadelphia lawyer to be in,'' he  said to himself. 
Indeed, how did Milton Sydney Blackman, graduate of the Harvard Law School Class  of `13 come to find himself in a dingy basement, under a brothel, in the center of wartime 
Berlin? 
The Blackman family had been emancipated by Pennsylvania Quakers long before it  became popular anywhere else. His father, John Blackman, was a prominent lawyer and a  leader in the small but powerful black community in Philadelphia. His mother, the former 
Susan Sydney, was an accomplished soprano and had performed for presidents. They may  not have been rich, but they were wealthy and prominent. It was fortunate that Sydney  had a natural intelligence, as his family simply wouldn't have allowed him to be stupid. He  was prodded and poked to use his talents. His `natural' ability at the piano was achieved  after nearly sixteen years of hard work and practice. He was much more comfortable with 
Tchaikovsky, than Tin Pan Alley. He could speak and read Latin, Greek, French and, of  course, German and could get by in Spanish, or Italian. 
His college years had been easy and he graduated in the top ten percent of his class. 
Upon returning to Philadelphia, he was given a job in his father's firm, his future guaranteed. 
For him the road to success was all downhill. 
He might be a successful, talented, intelligent young man but he was filled with vigor  and exuberance. He wanted to see the world, and laugh at danger. He had worked hard  for what he had achieved and now, by God, he didn't want be an old man at the age of  twenty­five. Damn it all! He wanted to have fun. 
At a party, he expressed these exact thoughts to a classmate and good friend who had 
recently been employed in Washington. Thus he came to the attention of a man named 
Boyer who needed someone just like him for a special job. What young man could resist the  opportunity to become a spy? War threatened in Europe, but it was clear America would  not be involved. He would be a neutral, spying on a belligerent. Even if he was caught, he  would only be deported. Besides, it was only for the duration of the upcoming war. How  long would that be? Three months, possibly six. 
He went through a training program, which for him was incredibly easy, given a ticket  to Stockholm and told to contact a man named Douglas Adams. 
His first few months at the La Baroness were an incredible lark. He loved playing  the role of buffoon among so many `superior' people. He especially liked listening to the 
Germans after they were convinced he couldn't understand a word they were saying. The  whole thing had been a great adventure and was exactly what he was looking for. He was  such a good actor, he even toyed with the idea of joining the theater on returning home. 
Then a few major monkey wrenches were tossed into the machinery of his life. First the  damn war did not end as scheduled, but droned on and on. Second, and most importantly,  he had fallen head over teacups in love with the woman he knew as Ammi Orleans. 
As the war continued, it became harder to play the fool. The acting that was fun  at first became tedious. The worst thing was the loneliness. He wanted to sit down and  actually talk to someone in a natural manner. Discuss politics, or art, or anything with  someone who listened to him. He even had to maintain the facade of stupidity when, giving  into his natural urges, he paid one of the girls to sleep with him. 
Any of these emotions paled against the second of his problems. Over the years as  he watched Ammi Orleans, he was in awe of her toughness, intelligence and drive. There  were also those rare times when he saw a noble strength and even tenderness. He was no  love sick swain lost in his emotions, but an intelligent, logical young man. He knew Ammi  would never return to the United States. There were too many bad memories there and she  would be just another black face, while here she was unique. He felt if he were to confess  everything to her, she would feel betrayed. His logical mind tossed out hundreds of reasons  he could not love her, but God, love her he did. The image went through his mind ``Dad, I  would like to present Miss Ammi Orleans, your future daughter­in­law and ex­whore.'' His  love for her would always be unrequited and knowing this ate at his insides. 
He should have bailed out with Adams, but he felt he must remain, supposedly to  somehow protect Ammi. Deep inside, he knew it was just that he couldn't bear the thought  of not being near her. 
The only way Adams would let him stay was if he continued his activities, only now  the game was for real. If he were caught, it would mean the firing squad and the chances of  being caught rose every day and now he had to worry that Ammi could be implicated and  go down with him. 
On top of everything else, the game had become dirty. He had been forced to do things  that he didn't even want to think about, much less remember. 
He took another swig from the bottle, an act deadly in his position, but one he noticed 
he did more and more of late. He looked at his watch: ``Time to go to work.'' 
He got off the bed and pulled a pencil, tablet and doctor's stethoscope from the lower  drawer of his bureau. He shoved the clothes to one side in his closet and closed the curtain  behind him. In the dim light filtering through the cloth he carefully fitted the stethoscope  to his ears gently laid the other end to the wall, and began to write. 
In the late part of the nineteenth century the telephone was in its infancy. The popular  way of communicating in a small area was accomplished by the speaking tube. The method  was used in buildings throughout Europe, especially hotels and apartments. Each room of  a building was equipped with a horn attached to a central `switchboard'. In this manner a  guest could request service or a wake­up call without leaving the room. As telephones became  more sophisticated, this system was slowly phased out in favor of wires and switches. 
In the hotel La Baroness all 65 rooms had, at one time, tubes connecting them to a  central operator's station. When Ammi's associate Douglas Adams contracted to remodel  the hotel, the speaking tubes in each room were not removed, but instead their horns were  replaced with a screened cover that looked exactly like a ventilator. In the basement the  central switchboard had been built into a closet. The tube openings were covered with  wallpaper. So with a precision listening device, like a stethoscope, pressed against the wall  at the right spot, one could hear the conversation even if the room was five floors above. 
This was, of course, exactly what Sydney was doing and had done for the last three years. 
He had supplied American intelligence with vital information and as the war progressed their  hunger for information grew. He sat in the gloom listening. He could not put names or faces  to the voices and many sounded so similar it was hard to visualize seven men talking. 
``Again you win! What is it with you?'' 
``When you are strong and pure of heart, you cannot lose.'' 
``Bullshit.'' 
``All right, who did it.'' 
``God, open a window.'' 
``No, you'll set off all the gas alarms on the western front.'' 
``Ach, the wind is blowing into Russia.'' 
``Oh, that's all right then. In Lenin's new Soviet it will be considered a breath of fresh  air.'' 
``Screw the Russians.'' 
``I have. I have.'' 
Sydney yawned. This work was like fishing. You just sat by the bank, waiting for  a bite. He was amused by the reference to Lenin. Lenin's being financed by the Germans  and shipped back to Russia was one of Sydney's juiciest bits of information. The Americans  knew about the Russian revolution long before any of the other Allies. 
``Strasser is in town.'' 
A nibble. Sydney began to write. 

``Volant?'' 
``Yes.'' 
``It is a brilliant plan.'' 
``I won't support it if Strasser's in charge.'' 
``So?'' 
``He's a jinx. His own men say so.'' 
``As Napoleon said, 'He is a good General, but is he lucky?''' 
``Buch will be in command. It's his plan anyway. Strasser just modified it.'' 
``We should have gone along with it the first time.'' 
``First time?'' 
``It was submitted many years ago before most of you joined us.'' 
``And it wasn't approved?'' 
``His Majesty felt it was --- inappropriate at the time.'' 
``Even now, I'm sure it will be a back up to the offensive.'' 
``But it would end the war!'' 
``If it works.'' 
``The Allies will have to sue for peace. What else can they do?'' 
``Retaliate.'' 
``How?'' 
There was a few seconds silence before anyone spoke. 
``Good lord, not again.'' 
``Somebody open that window.'' 
Five floors down Sydney could feel adrenaline coursing through his body. It was obvious  it was an important topic and he had enough names and information for his superiors to set  other agents on the trail. They had accomplished much more with a lot less. He listened for  another two hours until the men upstairs broke up their game for the night. 
Sydney replaced the stethoscope and rewrote his notes in code. He took the papers  outside to his photography table. Laying out the documents four pages at a time, he pho­  tographed them. When finished, he developed the negatives and ended up with the ten  documents he started with on a piece of cellulose an inch wide and six inches long. The  originals were thrown into the furnace and more coal was toss on top. From his pocket he  removed a brightly decorated tube advertising the goodness and quality of the fine Cuban  cigar it held. He removed the cigar, wrapped the cellulose around it and put it back into  the metal tube. Tomorrow the cigar would be sold to a Swedish diplomat, find its way to 
Stockholm and from there to London and US Army intelligence. 

London 
Lieutenant Colonel John Snider removed his wet trench coat and hung it on the coat rack just  inside the door of his offce. It was a wet, cold, Monday. The wind had turned the freezing  drizzle into tiny flying shards of glass and the morning rush left space only on the upper deck  of the bus. Only too late he realized he should have taken a cab. His secretary had a pot of  coffee brewing on the electric hot plate that was technically illegal in the building. She still  hadn't the knack of brewing a strong cup, trying to save the little they were rationed. His  offce was on the fourth floor of a building in a business district just a few blocks from big 
Ben, if the term `block' could be used in London. Snider had never realized what a concept  that was. American cities were built on the grid pattern, but most European cities simply  evolved haphazardly. He had been stationed in London for three years and he still couldn't  find his way around. Because he was a division chief, he occupied a coveted 10 X 10 corner  offce with two windows, which did little to lighten the room. The walls were a drab yellow  brown, the furniture old and the carpet had a definite path worn into it. Snider took a  ratty sweater, to fight the winter, from the back of his cracked leather chair, sat down and  surveyed the desk. 
Far from a meticulous person, Snider put things into piles, not files. His secretary  entered the room with a steaming mug she handed to him. ``You're an angel and a godsend, 
Jenny Smith,'' he told her. 
``I never could see why you Yanks like that evil­tasting stuff,'' she said in her charming  accent. Snider smiled. In Britain, he had the accent. 
``Here are the weekend dispatches,'' she added, handing him a sheaf of papers. Snider  admired the view as she turned and walked back to her desk. In the past few years he had  to fight hard to not show too much interest in her. He still had a wife and two kids in the 
States and an inter­offce affair wasn't worth the trouble. 
As the click of Jenny's typewriter filled the air, he settled back and started to read the  documents. 
He was on his third cup of coffee when he began reading the dispatch from the agent  known as Equinox. He experienced the same kind of rush as had Sydney Black upon hearing  the conversation: This was important. Obviously the Germans thought so. The operation  was submitted by someone named Strasser, commanded by someone named Buch and was  a backup for the offensive the Allies knew was being planned. He wasn't sure, but he would  guess the word `Volant' was the name of the operation. 
``Jenny,'' he commanded, ``arrange a meeting with Captain Richardson and Major 
Amory. My offce, twelve thirty.'' 

In the days before databases and computers, all research was done by human hands  and minds. Captain Richardson's unit occupied a crowded room across the hall from Snider's  offce. His staff of 17 considered themselves mechanized because they had a fleet of bicycles  and could visit libraries, archives, newspaper offces and various other areas throughout 
London. It was also the communication center. They could contact headquarters in Paris in  an hour, a telegraph to Washington might take a few hours and a phone call might actually  be placed the same day if traffc was light. 
Major Amory, as intelligence liaison offcer, had the even more diffcult job of coordinat­  ing data with intelligence agencies from other countries in such a way as to not compromise  the information. He and his staff had to be diplomats, statesmen and, on occasion, con  artists. 
Allied copies of German personnel records indicated 1562 Strassers and 1755 Buchs  serving in the German military and the figures were nebulous to say the least. Every intelli­  gence reference to the names Strasser, Buch and Volant had to be checked and cross­checked. 
It was almost two weeks before the staff put together enough information to present  to higher authorities what was, at best, an educated guess. 
The coordinating American presence in England was Major General John Shapp, the  ranking U.S. offcer there. The General did not like England. His father had been a gunner  aboard the USS Kearsarge in the Civil War and had lost a leg battling the Confederate  raider Alabama, which had been built and outfitted in England. 
On the other hand, American troops in France faired no better, being treated by the 
French as poor cousins. At least in France Shapp might have had a combat command leading  to a greater opportunity for promotion. As far as Shapp was concerned, America shouldn't  have been in the war at all. ``Let the damn Europeans kill each other off. It would have  been better to come into the war on the German side and bust the imperialists once and for  all. But no, that weak slimy Wilson couldn't wait to kiss France and Britain's backsides,''  he would write to his wife, but only because he knew his letters were not being censored. 
Colonel Snider entered his offce at 0900 hours accompanied by the ever present Stanley 
Boyer. Although Snider was offcially under Shapp's command, Boyer was his actual boss. 
Shapp knew little about Boyer except that he was a civilian, which, of course, made him  suspect in the first place. The espionage network the Army used was under Boyer's command  and he was privy to the highest secrets of the military, Shapp was only privy to what Boyer  wanted him to know. 
They went through the ritual of military protocol. Salute, return salute, have a seat,  like a cup of coffee, looking well, etc., until finally they got down to business. ``What have  you got for me?'' Shapp asked. 
Snider reached into his attach’e case and withdrew a red folder with the words `Top 
Secret' across the front. Shapp put on a pair of wire framed reading glasses and spent a few  minutes reading the enclosed documents. 
``Very good. Clear and concise as usual, but not a lot of meat in it,'' he said. ``What  are your conclusions?'' 

``We found a number of relationships,'' Snider began. ``The best bet is the Strasser  in question is Captain Peter Strasser, head of the Kregsmarines Airship Division and Otto  von Buch commander of the 12th Naval Aero Squadron stationed at Elmsdorf. They seem  to be the only ones matching the scenario. There are a few others cases where a Buch is  subordinate to a Strasser, but they don't appear too promising.'' 
``Gentlemen,'' the general said, sitting back in his chair, ``it looks like we have a tempest  in a teacup. I don't see anything to act upon here.'' 
``Sir,'' Boyer spoke up for the first time. ``If you could read the transcript again and  note the,'' he struggled for the right word, ``tone, so to speak. They are saying that if this  plan succeeds the Allies will sue for peace. Not might or should, but will. They are making  it quite clear, they feel we will have no other alternative.'' 
Boyer was amused at the game he was playing. To any observer the general was in  charge and Boyer was requesting his assistance. In reality Boyer was telling the general what  he wanted and the general would comply. He had no choice; the game had to be played. 
``Hell,'' Boyer thought, ``he probably thinks no one reads those letters to his wife.'' 
Boyer sat back in his chair emphasizing the fact he considered the general an equal, not  a superior. ``And most importantly, they choose to only launch this plan after the offensive,  which, even if it succeeds, will cost them thousands of lives and millions in money. It's  logical to try this operation Volant first. Look at what they'd save. Instead they choose to  do it only as a last ditch effort. I have a very bad feeling about this.'' 
The General threw up his hands, ``OK, what are you proposing?'' 
``We want to make this top priority. Free up resources. Pull people out of other  projects,'' Snider said. 
The General leaned forward, scratching the stubble on his chin, ``You know Pershing  says the offensive is top priority.'' 
``The Brits and the Frogs are already knee­deep in that project, sir,'' Snider replied. 
``Their attack will be in spring or early summer and be a total failure,'' Boyer went  on. ``The Krauts want it before fall, but even if they push us back they no longer have the  resources to win. They're like a fighter trying to rally in the final rounds. There's only one  way to win and that's with a knockout. The offensive won't have the punch.'' 
``You think Volant will give them the knockout?'' The general asked. 
``I just don't know,'' came Boyer's reply. 
``OK,'' said Shapp, ``I agree. Just leave some resources working on the offensive.'' He  turned to Boyer. ``I know these are your people, but if you start shuffing around their  assignments you may be increasing their danger of being caught.'' 
``I'm willing to take that chance,'' Boyer said. 
``No, Mr. Boyer,'' the general said. ``They will be taking that chance.'' 

Major Goldberg 
Corporal Eddy Bromwell was cold and miserable in his little shack that guarded the main  entrance to Elmsdorf. Cold because he had to step outside his cozy shack for approaching  car and miserable as the rest of his detachment was singing and guzzling huge amounts of  beer at a farewell party to honor of their retiring commander, Major Heinz Fenster. 
The Mercedes pulled up to his checkpoint. The driver, an ugly bear of a sergeant,  shouted out the window, ``Corporal, where is the security headquarters?'' 
``What do you want to go there for?'' 
``Corporal, are you in the habit of questioning superior offcers?'' This came from a  gruff voice in the back sat. Bromwell's eyes glanced at the back seat and onto a major's  insignia. He snapped to attention. ``No, sir. The headquarters are straight down the road  about a kilometer, sir. It is a large brick building.'' 
He saluted as an after thought. The major returned the salute and the car entered the  base. 
The corporal leaped back into the warmth of the guard shack. ``Who was that?'' He  muttered quietly glancing at his watch. In a half­hour he would be relieved and would catch  at least the last half of the party. He didn't see the car turn right on the road that led to  the zeppelin sheds. 
Elmsdorf was to have been an Army airship training base. When the war began the 
Navy needed bases in a position to attack targets in southern England and northern France  and Elmsdorf became one of them. Although a Naval Base, the Army handled the security. 
The fifty or so soldiers of the security force had never been part of the zeppelin family. They  never felt welcome at Shed Ten and kept to themselves professionally and socially. 
In every war there are personnel and resources never directly involved in combat,  such as supply, administration, security and other support services. They are every bit as  important as the soldier on the battlefield, but they rarely share the prestige of combat  veterans. Most were good men who did an excellent job, but they weren't their country's  finest. They lay dead at the front. 
Elmsdorf's security detachment was housed in a pre­war hostel for the poor and num­  bered fifty­one people, forty­nine of who were in the community dining room preparing to  toast Major Fenster. Fenster was only fifty­four but had suffered a stroke and now sat mo­  tionless in a wheel chair, paralyzed down his left side. He'd never been willing to do a whole  lot and dedicated himself to making his, and his men's lives as easy and comfortable as  possible. He was immensely popular with his men. 
They drank toast after toast in honor of their commander and the party was now into 
ribald songs. Corporal Bromwell had been relieved and joined the party. He looked around  and couldn't see the ugly sergeant and the mysterious major. He grabbed a stein of beer  and gulped it down trying to catch up with his comrades. The incident at the gate bothered  him and he brought it to the attention of Lieutenant Rissinger, in charge of the detachment  for the four months since the major was ill. 
``Are you sure he asked for security headquarters?'' Rissinger asked. 
``Yes sir. I thought he was a friend of Major Fenster's.'' 
``Maybe he got lost?'' Rissinger said with a shrug. 
The main entrance door opened and in stepped two figures. 
``That's them,'' Bromwell whispered. 
Most of the men in the party stopped momentarily to stare. The sergeant had an  ugly scar rippling across his massive forehead intersecting his left eye, causing a squint. The  major was a head taller and had a muscular body of a soccer player, and black hair. His  handsome face was marred by a patch over his left eye. Both men stood ramrod straight  and impeccably dressed. The major's left sleeve had no hand sticking out of it. 
Rissinger saluted, `` May I help you, major?'' 
The offcer returned the salute, ``I am Major Joshua Goldberg, and this is Sergeant 
Herman Grabenski. I have orders to take command here. You should have received a  dispatch to that effect.'' 
Rissinger felt a wave of anger flow through him. He had expected to become the new  commander with a promotion. ``We received no such communiqu’e, major.'' 
``I can see you are --- busy,'' the major said, nodding toward the party. ``Are quarters  available?'' 
``Yes, sir,'' Rissinger said quickly, ``we have a guest room.'' He hesitated, ``Major 
Fenster's quarters are --- not cleared yet.'' Fenster's quarters had been cleared weeks ago,  but Rissinger had moved into them. 
``Good. We will clear the details in the morning. I want a meeting with all personnel  at 1300 hours.'' 
``Yes, sir,'' Rissinger said snapping to attention. ``Corporal Bromwell will show you to  your quarters, sir.'' 
Looking like a puppy about to be beaten, the corporal led the two men away. 
Rissinger was flooded with questions about the strangers as he crossed the dining area  where the offces were located, muttering: ``New commander,'' over and over. The men had  also expected Rissinger to take command. 
He unlocked the door to Major Fenster's offce. He sat behind the big desk, his for the  last few months and started to shuffe through the papers till he found what he was looking  for, a dispatch received three days earlier which he had put aside. He opened it quickly and  read. ``Damn!'' He cried aloud. 

The Spartan guest room was considered luxurious by Major Goldberg and Sergeant 
Grabenski. 
`Well, Herman.`` Major Goldberg said, unbuttoning his tunic, ''what do you think of  our new command?'' 
``About what I expected,'' Grabenski said with a shrug. ``Soft, used to the good life,' 
``Not like us, Herman,'' Goldberg removed his tunic revealing the ugly looking stump  where his left arm had been. 
``Does that bother you?'' The sergeant asked. 
``Sometimes it has a phantom pain,'' came the terse reply. ``More like an itch you can't  scratch.'' 
They had met two years earlier, when Goldberg took command of an infantry unit  on the eastern front. He was nervous, trying to compensate for his youth and the fact he  was a Jew and having a hard time winning the respect of his troops. He obeyed orders  unquestioningly and was considered a good soldier by his superiors, but he could feel he was  not in control of his men. Goldberg was not afraid of dying or being wounded, but screwing  up and getting his men hurt. 
He called Corporal Grabenski, a veteran of many battles, into his offce. The corporal  stood stiffy at attention and saluted. Being called in like this was usually not good. 
Grabenski's confusion rose when the lieutenant took out two bottles of schnapps and  casually tossed him one. ``What did you do before the war, corporal?'' 
``A shoemaker, sir.'' 
`I was a student of literature,`` Goldberg said. ''I want to be a writer someday.'' 
The lieutenant motioned him to drink. Grabenski was not going to turn down free  booze, especially at the front. Goldberg continued. ``I'm a young man, but not a stupid one. 
I know I'm doing it wrong. In my community if a young man has a problem, he seeks advice  from his elders. I want your advice.'' 
Grabenski looked at him and was reminded of his brother who was only a few years  younger. He took a long swig from the bottle. ``You try too hard to be an offcer and don't  try hard enough to be the commander.'' 
He looked at the young man to see if there was a hint of anger but saw none. ``The  men want to know you are concerned for them,'' he continued. ``They want to trust you and  know you need them. We are like a soccer team and you're the captain.'' 
They talked for an hour, at the end of which both men were feeling the effects of the  drink. As Grabenski headed back to his tent, he wondered what he should tell his comrades. 
He decided to say nothing. 
Next morning the camp was filled with activity as the men prepared to move into the  battle line. As they were ready to move out, Goldberg called Grabenski and had him gather  the men and stand them at ease. He then addressed them, ``Gentlemen I want to show you  something.'' With that he turned his back and lowered his trousers to his knees. He pulled  his pants up and turned to face his shocked men. 

``That is my ass. I like it and want to get it back home in the same condition you see  it now. I'm sure you feel the same way about yours. So let's take care of each other's. The 
Russians want to kick them. Are we going to let them?'' 
``No!'' Came the shout. 
``Good,'' Goldberg continued. ``I have faith in you. Let's give them hell!'' 
The men marched away with their spirits much higher than before. Goldberg managed  to walk next to Grabenski. ``Did I do good?'' Goldberg said under his breath. 
``Yes, sir,'' came the reply. ``Although I have to admit, I've never seen anything like  it.'' 
The war in the Eastern Front was nothing like that fought in the west. The Russian 
Armies had been much feared by the German High Command and the principal reason for  their overall strategic plan. 
Before the war the Germans found themselves between two hostile forces, the French  and the Russians. With their superior communications and transportation network Germany  could mobilize its army in less than ten days. The French, with equal forces, could take up  to two weeks. With an almost limitless manpower pool from which to draw, it would take  the Russians over a month to mobilize. 
The German war plan had been conceived by Alfred Graf von Schlieffen, former chief  of the General Staff. His plan called for the German army to roll through Belgium, invade 
France, and defeat them before they had the opportunity to fully mobilize. The Germans  would then be loaded onto trains, moved to the eastern front and defeat the Russians before  they had a chance to mobilize. Thus Germany would win lightning victories against two  major powers and avoid having to fight a two­front war. 
When war came Germany found the bulk of its army bogged down in trench warfare  on the western front while a weakened German army had to be thrown against the Russian  juggernaut. 
The Russians had men, but few supplies, nor any effective command structure. Even so,  the weight of its military was so great, they pushed, and actually invaded German territory. 
The trench warfare paralyzing the Western Front never got a good hold in the east. Russian  strategy was simple --- they had more bodies than the Germans had bullets. 
This was the war Lieutenant Goldberg and Corporal Grabenski fought: charge, kill,  snow, ice, mud, blood and death. Russian courage could not be questioned. Their intelligence  could. They'd seen many a battlefield and Russian corpses cut down while struggling over  the gun of a fallen comrade. Life for the Germans on the eastern front was bad. Life for the 
Russians was unadulterated hell. The Germans seemed to win every battle, and yet gain  nothing. 
Goldberg's reputation became that of a courageous, able commander and he rose to  captain. Grabenski served him well and rose to master sergeant. 
In May of 1917, there was a strange silence along the front. There was no sign of  life, no movement, smoke, or sound. A scouting party across no­man's land returned with 
the word the Russians had gone. Headquarters had a hard time believing at first, but soon  corroborating evidence came in and the order was given to advance all along the front. They  moved three kilometers that day and met no resistance. That night there was wild celebration  as the rumor came down the line the Czar had abdicated and the war was over. The Czar had  indeed abdicated, but the war was not over. Goldberg and his men were advancing toward  the village of Rosenburg. They had marched all day, meeting no resistance and intended to  enter the village in the morning. Goldberg had given the order to set up camp in a meadow  and bivouac for the night. He sat on a cot removing his boots when he became aware of a  thundering sound and a howl coming from a distance. 
``Cossacks!'' someone cried. 
Goldberg dashed outside and was almost rundown by a man on horseback. He reacted  instantly and shot the man with his Luger. The man threw his arms wide and fell backward  from the horse. The camp was filled with wraiths on horseback. Goldberg caught a vision of  a charging bearded Cossack, wearing a white silk shirt, gleaming black boots and bearskin  hat, even though it was summer. Twilight glisten on his sword. Men were screaming, guns  were firing, dying horses emitted a sickening high­pitched whine. The air smelled of horses,  gunpowder and a faint butcher shop smell. Goldberg saw a horseman bearing down on 
Grabenski, and the saber begin its downward arc. He shot the horse in the head, and it  crumbled throwing the rider. Grabenski rose up on all fours, his face covered with blood. 
``Captain,'' he shouted. Later Goldberg said he clearly heard the word over the noise of  combat. He turned in time to see the dark silhouette of horse and rider bearing down and  the saber fall like a guillotine blade. He threw up his left arm to protect his face and felt the  blade cut deep into his flesh and its tip sliced his face. His right hand repeatedly pulled the  trigger, blasting bullet after bullet into the dark shape. The Luger now produced a series of  clicks. He tried to retrieve another clip, but his left arm felt paralyzed. He threw down the 
Luger, picked up a dead man's Mauser and shot another Cossack. 
Then they were gone. He shouted orders for a defensive perimeter to be established in  case of a counter attack and called for medics to tend the wounded. Blackness came and he  passed out. When he awoke the air was filled with the odor of ether, ammonia, carbolic acid  and diarrhea. He heard moaning in the background and he was aware of lying on a bed, his  left arm aching like he had been punched hard, and his head bandaged. He guessed he was  in a field hospital. When he tried to speak his mouth was too dry. ``Water,'' he managed  to croak. Hearing the sound of his voice seemed to give him strength. ``Could I please have  some water?'' 
A wet cloth was pressed to his lips and he sucked the sweet moisture. He tried to wipe  the moisture from his eyes. A nurse saw what he was trying to do and wiped them with  the same cloth that she used to quench his thirst. Then a doctor was there, looking at him  and listening to his heart. The doctor told him the saber had nearly severed his arm and  he couldn't save it. The point had punctured his left eye and, had it gone in more, it would  have punctured the brain. He knew he should be concerned about this, but right then, all  he wanted was a drink of water and sleep. 
He was told they had tangled with the 7th Imperial Don Cossacks, an elite unit, spear 
head of a Russian offensive that, thanks to the heavy loses they encountered at the hands  of Goldberg's troops, failed. He was to receive the Iron Cross from the Kaiser. He would  rather have his arm back. Grabenski visited him. ``It is lucky they hit me on my head, or I  could've been hurt,'' he said still swathed in bandages. He gave Goldberg the sword of the  man who attacked him. 
Major Joshua Goldberg received his Iron Cross from the Kaiser and an opportunity to  leave the military. Instead he opted for light duty. He would continue to serve as long as the  war lasted. He requested Grabenski be assigned with him. They hunted around for a place  to put an one­eyed, one­armed Jewish Major and then a report on Major Fenster crossed a  desk somewhere. Goldberg got Elmsdorf. 
Before the 1300 hour meeting, speculation ran throughout the security unit. 
``He's a Jew boy, I tell you!'' 
``Maybe he's not so bad.'' 
``I heard he's some kind of hero.'' 
``I heard Rissinger is mad as hell.'' 
``That'll fix that popinjay.'' 
``Attention!'' 
Sergeant Grabenski's voice brought the group to attention. Goldberg walked to the  front; his left sleeve rolled up and pinned to his shirt and the eyepatch giving his face a  sinister pall. By his military bearing they knew he was not the stuff of Major Fenster. 
``At ease, gentlemen,'' he began, ``you may be seated. My name is Major Joshua 
Goldberg and that gentleman in the back is Master Sergeant Herman Grabenski. We have  both served on the Eastern front and were the principle reason the Russians surrendered.'' 
The attempt at humor went over the heads of most of the group. 
``I have studied both your mission and history. I have also examined most of your  personnel records.'' 
Now he studied their faces. They were not unlike those he commanded on the front. 
``As with most changes of command there will be changes in procedures.'' 
He saw their worried looks. Now was time to play the prick. Grabenski made a big  show of bringing a small box down the aisle and placing it on the table. Goldberg opened  the box and removed a piece of chocolate that he popped into his mouth. 
``I would like to offer all of you a piece of fine Swiss chocolate, but as you can see, I  don't have enough to go around. I actually brought eleven boxes of chocolate, but last night  the sergeant and I visited the zeppelin sheds --- and seem to have lost ten of them.'' 
Now was the time Goldberg took command, ``You gentlemen will find them. You will  not eat, or sleep, until I have eleven boxes of chocolate sitting on this table. Any questions?'' 
``Lieutenant Rissinger, you may take command of the search parties. That is all.'' 
The security detachment was now angry: 

``What the hell is this?'' 
``Must've mashed his brains on the Russian front,'' 
``I won't take this crap from some god damn Jew.'' 
This last statement, spoken by a strong young private, was overheard by Grabenski. 
Grabenski stuck his face about an inch from the private's nose, ``You WILL stand to  attention when I am speaking to you, or I WILL have your liver for breakfast.'' 
The sergeant's eyes flamed with hatred. The rest of the men stopped to stare at the  one sided confrontation. 
``Maybe you won't take crap from some God damn Jew,'' Grabenski proclaimed, ``but  you WILL take it from a major in his Majesty's Imperial Army. DO I MAKE MYSELF 
CLEAR?'' 
It was almost nine o'clock the next morning before the men again filled the room. They  were tired and hungry. The room was filled with the odor of breakfast being prepared in the  adjoining kitchen. The table now contained eleven boxes, although two were crumpled. The  unit came to attention again as Goldberg walked up to the table. 
``Ah,'' he said, ``you found them.'' He picked up one of the empty boxes. 
``I'm afraid the zeppelin men found those before we did,'' Lieutenant Rissinger said,  by way of explanation. 
``Oh well,'' Goldberg continued, ``we will make do with nine. Sergeant, please pass  these out.'' 
Grabenski tossed boxes randomly to individuals. 
`Please,`` the major said with a smile, ''open and pass them out to your friends. 
There was a bustle that was suddenly interrupted by a loud bang, a cloud of evil­  smelling smoke and a shout, followed by a man falling backwards on his chair. Nervous  laughter ran through the room when they realized they were the victims of a practical joke. 
``At ease, gentlemen.'' Goldberg had achieved his goal. ``A simple device,'' he said, 
``made from the flash powder used in photography. Harmless. We switched one of the boxes.'' 
He suddenly became very serious, ``There are, at the present time, six zeppelins sta­  tioned at this base each containing some 55,000 cubic meters of hydrogen, the most flammable  gas in the world. Had we planted that box aboard a zeppelin, and had one of the zeppelin  crew opened it, it could have been a disaster.'' 
The men had become very quiet. ``I have performed this little demonstration so you  understand the changes that will be made in the future.'' He could see the message had sunk  in. ``Have your breakfast, get some sleep. New duty rosters will be posted. Dismissed.'' 

Dantzler 
The streets of Constance were covered with a gentle layer of snow. White flakes danced in  the air, sparkling like little flying diamonds, but there were few of them and they did not  greatly obstruct the view of the clear blue lake to the north, or the crisp mountains to the  south. Eric Dantzler's feet made quiet crunching sounds as he walked carrying a worn carpet  bag with the few items he would need for a week at his home. 
He began his journey the day before by tossing his battered bag into the Bearcat at  six in the morning and driving to Cologne. There he parked the car in a one­time stable,  now garage, run by a man named Mueller, who was remarkably similar in appearance to 
Darhower. The Stutz was a fine automobile, but the prospect of traveling 400+ kilometers  to Friedrichshafen on poor roads in the dead of winter did not appeal to him. The six­hour  train ride was uneventful apart from flirtation with a young lady who got off at Stuttgart. 
He arrived at Friedrichshafen at one in the morning and spent the night in a hotel. In  the morning he checked into the sprawling Zeppelin complex, then boarded the bus that  took him to the Maybach engine division headquarters. The Zeppelin factory was large as  befitting the maker of the world's largest flying machines. Most impressive were the giant  hangers where the zeppelins were assembled. The zeppelin field now shared space with the  heavy, fixed wing, bombers also being built there. 
The Maybach building was familiar ground to Dantzler. He greeted and waved to  people he had worked with over the years. A few were envious of the engine whiz kid who  had started with Maybach just before the war fresh out of college and now called most of  upper management by their first names. He walked past the secretary's desk, and then  walked into the conference room, where he greeted other engineers and executives. 
The meeting was one of those long, drawn out, affairs, where the minutes were kept and  the hours wasted. Eric related the problems the squadron experienced with the superchargers  and carburetors. All in all, of the six hours in conference, maybe an hour was spent on  meaningful communication. They were going over the production schedule when Eric noticed  the next to be completed was LZ 98 followed by LZ 102. He questioned this and was told  they were doing this to fool Allied intelligence into thinking more were being produced than  there actually were. He couldn't put his finger on it, but had the feeling this was not entirely  the truth. When the meeting broke up, the secretary called Dantzler over to her desk and  informed him the executive vice president Himlich Boche wanted to see him. 
Boche had been with the company since the early days and was a giant of a man. 
Legend had it his permanent limp was caused by an auto­racing accident in his youth. He  carefully closed the door behind Dantzler and invited him to take a seat. 
``Eric, my boy,'' he boomed, ``how is it at Elmsdorf? Are the giving those Britishers 
hell?'' 
``We try,'' Eric answered. ``But every time we make a move, the Allies make a counter  move. I'm afraid the zeppelin is about finished as a weapon.'' 
``I've always said that zeppelins should have been used for reconnaissance and trans­  port, not for warfare,'' Boche said. ``They're too damn vulnerable.'' 
He leaned forward and said conspiratorially, ``I think Eckler believes this too.'' 
He was referring to Hugo Eckler, the director of the Zeppelin Corporation since the  count's death. 
He sat back, his tone becoming all business. ``There is a --- project in the works. I want  you, I need you, to be in on it. It will entail a lot of extra work and travel, but it will be  centered at Elmsdorf. They wanted replace you with a German national, but I convinced  them you are the man for the job.'' 
He smiled. ``Here comes the hook,'' Eric thought. 
Boche made a steeple with his fingers, ``When the project's completed, I can give you  the job as head of research and development.'' 
``This will be in nine months, at the most. As long as it takes to have a baby, but not  near as much fun to start.'' 
``Can I think about it? I go back in three days.'' 
``Let me know then.'' 
Dantzler checked his watch and saw he had time to catch the ferry. Friedrichshafen  is located on the northern shore of Lake Constance in Germany. Constance is southwest  on the southern shore of the lake in Switzerland. A sizable ferry connects the two, running  the twenty­five kilometers both ways every two hours, as long as the lake isn't frozen. Then  commuters are required to take a train that isn't nearly as convenient or relaxing. Dantzler  often wondered if there wasn't something shady about allowing workers from a neutral  country to be employed in a belligerent country. If it was, the ever­shrewd Swiss offcials  weren't about to say anything. Dantzler assumed similar arrangements existed on the French  and Italian borders as well. 
Eric paid his fare and boarded the vessel. There were a few trucks, a couple of cars  and a number of wagons aboard. The rush hours were over, so there was no great crush of  passengers. Eric stood outside, leaning over the starboard rail, smoking his pipe, basking  in the chilly winter sun and watching the reflection of the mountains on the water. A great  dark shape rose slowly in the air and sailed over the lake like a giant fish. . . another zeppelin  going to a front line unit. 
Head of research and development would be a prestigious and lucrative position. He  should be excited and pleased. He was neither. The offer depended on Germany winning  the war. He didn't see that happening and besides, there were other considerations. 
Clouds had begun to gather as the ferry approached the shore and by the time Eric  disembarked and cleared the custom inspection, a gentle snow was falling. He began walking  home. 

The sights and sounds were sweet to him. Although his family had moved to Constance  just a few years earlier, the friendly neighborhood took the Dantzlers to heart. He was greeted  by many passers­by who shouted to him and asked about his health and job, and meant it. 
The street rose uphill, lined on both sides with spacious, gaily painted town houses, their  facades filled with gingerbread and frills. Eric stopped before one of these midway up the  hill, carefully climbed the snow­covered stairs and used the big brass knocker. The door was  opened by a man who although old, looked strong as an ox, obviously a man who considered  old age an enemy to be fought to the death. 
``Eric,'' he exclaimed, his face exploding into a smile. He shouted back into the house. 
``Mama, come, Eric is home.'' 
The man took Eric's hand in a vice­like grip and hustled him into the hallway. Eric  had just enough time to drop his carpetbag before two huge arms belonging to a rather  corpulent white haired woman grabbed him. She then gave him a sloppy kiss to the cheek. 
``Welcome home, boy,'' she said, standing back from him. ``We were not expecting you  till tomorrow.'' 
``Come,'' she laughed, ``come, I will fix you something to eat. They don't feed you in 
Germany.'' 
``You must tell us everything,'' the man said. Eric took off his coat and hung it on the  familiar coat rack, and removed his boots. All three moved into the warm kitchen where the  men sat at the table and sipped hot tea while the woman busied herself at the stove. 
``It's good to be home,'' Eric thought as he sipped his tea. They chatted and an  atmosphere of genuine affection filled the air and mingled with the smell of cooking bacon. 
Eric could not have loved these two people more if they had been his real parents. 
``Mr. Wolfram is in town,'' the senior Dantzler said. ``He has invited us up to his  cabin.'' 
``Ach,'' Mrs. Dantzler squealed, ``he has just come home and you want to take him  from me.'' 
``Don't worry,'' Eric laughed. ``I'll be back soon, so you can fatten me up.'' 
Rudolf Wolfram ran a tool and die company in Bern, specializing in precision instru­  ments. Mr. Dantzler had worked for Rudolf's father as head of engineering until he retired,  and had bounced little Rudolf on his knee some thirty years ago. Wolfram had a cabin in  the hills overlooking the lake --- a beautiful location and a healthy hike. He always invited  the Dantzlers to the cabin whenever he was in town and the Dantzlers always went. 
After a comfortable night under a handmade goose­down comforter and a breakfast to  feed a regiment, Eric dressed, and prepared for the twenty­kilometer climb to the cabin. 
The snow had stopped and left only a dusting on the ground. The sun was shining  and although the air had a chill to it, it was great day for a hike. The two men quickly  left the city behind as they walked, turning inland from the lake to begin the ascent, they  were surrounded by silence, broken only by the crunch of their boots on the snow and the  sound of their breathing. Halfway they stopped and shared hot coffee from a thermos, some 
sausage and cheese. Neither man spoke much: They were father and son enjoying the day  and each other's company. 
It was mid­afternoon before the pair reached the cabin. The door was unlocked and  they invited themselves into the warmth. A note left on the table told them Wolfram was  out hunting but there was beer in the icebox. It was an hour before the door burst inward  and Rudolf Waltram entered, followed by a stocky man in a parka. Wolfram was tall, and  built like a runner, which he had been in younger days. He introduced his companion as 
Senior Richard Cervara, a business associate from Toledo, Spain. They skinned and cooked  the brace of rabbits Waltram had shot, all the while chatting --- just friends having a good  time. 
It was dark by the time the finished their meal and swilled a good amount of beer. At  about eight o'clock, Wolfram looked at Hans Dantzler and nodded toward the door. The two  men got up and without a word took down two guns from a rack on the wall and stepped  outside. 
Left alone, Eric spoke in English to Senior Cervara: 
``It's a strange game we play.'' 
``It's a dangerous game we play,'' Stanley Boyer replied. 

The Beginning 
Hot Springs, Arkansas, June 12, 1911 
There is a volcano in the middle of America. Few are aware of its existence, but it is  there simmering in Southwest Arkansas. It created enough pressure in its crater to form the  diamonds mined in the little town of Murfreesboro, and still found there today. Just north  of this crater the lava underground pushes up the steaming water that give the town of Hot 
Springs its name. It is the seat of Garland County and located on the Ouachita River, 47  miles from Little Rock. Hot Springs has been a fashionable health spa since it was settled in 
1807. Bathhouses, hotels and fine restaurants border its main thoroughfare. The inhabitants  like to call it the Atlantic City of the Ozarks, a place where the wealthy came to immerse  themselves and soak away the cares of the world. 
At the turn of the century there were numerous `social' clubs (how social the ladies  got depended on what the men were willing to pay), casinos, where a rich man was allowed  to become poor and saloons, where one could buy the best imported whiskey or the finest  moonshine. 
Naked men sitting in a large tub of warm mud would often make decisions affecting  thousands of people and millions of dollars. Deals would be done over card tables; mergers  and takeovers agreed to while men sipped fine wine and cut into their thick steaks. On the  more public side, most of the hotels provided facilities for high level meetings of important  people. Just such a meeting was being held in the Hotel Royal. Government and private 
VIPs were discussing `The Agricultural and Fiscal Growth of Middle America,' and to a  casual eye it would seem just that, unless you noticed the number of military and the guards  at the door. 
In reality, it was a clandestine meeting of experts from the War Department, Congress,  the White House and other government and civilian groups. The subject: `The German 
War Machine: `The Present and Future of the German Military.' A symposium on what  the United States might face in an armed conflict. To be fair other conferences had been,  or would be, held to determine the military dangers from Spain, France, Russia, Japan, 
England, Canada, or Mexico, any of which posed a threat to security in 1911. This meeting  had just heard from a young captain named MacArthur on the type, totals and tactics of 
`wagons, horse­drawn'. One Congressman remarked quietly, ``This offcer has a brilliant  career ahead of him --- as a pompous ass.'' Checking their itineraries, they concluded there  was just one more boring presentation to go. 
``Captain Reynolds, they'll see you now,'' the smartly dressed aide said, to the well­  built, sandy­haired, man on the bench outside the room. Although wearing a uniform that  would have passed inspection, he still projected an untidy appearance; his face reflected an 
adventurous night and a lengthy tenure on the bench waiting for the preceding speaker to  finish. As he gathered his materials that speaker emerged. 
``Go well?'' Reynolds grinned. 
The austere captain glared at him, and walked past. ``Screw you too, buddy,'' Reynolds  muttered at his receding back. 
Lawrence Reynolds had been given less than a week to prepare for this. The major  scheduled to give the presentation had the good luck to be thrown by a horse and crack  his skull. Most of the major's notes where locked in his safe and he was having trouble  remembering the combination. 
The train ride to Hot Springs was hot and muggy. For the last three hundred miles  he had to sit next to a fat woman who was traveling with eight kids who acted like Attila's  hordes. At the hotel the clerk summoned a wiry black man old enough to be his father, 
``Take this --- ah --- gentleman's bags to room 312.'' Reynolds was tempted to carry the bags  himself out of respect for age, but he realized this was how the man earned a living. As he  turned he was bumped by a tall skeletal man in a black coat who mumbled, ``Excuse me,''  as if he didn't mean it. 
As Reynolds walked away still smarting from the impact, he heard an authoritarian,  voice yell, ``Give it back!'' 
The tall man was bent double with a solid Navy lieutenant's fist planted firmly in his  gut. 
``I should call the police,'' the tall man gasped. 
``Good idea,'' the sailor spat back. ``Police! Hey, police!'' 
``Hey, soldier boy,'' he beckoned to Reynolds, ``this concerns you, too.'' 
A confused Reynolds shrugged. The clerk behind the counter ignored these going ons. 
``Give it back,'' the sailor hissed. 
The tall man reached inside his coat and handed Reynolds a billfold. It was his own. 
``I suppose you'll now turn me in,'' the man said. 
``Oh, no. I can to do better than that,'' the sailor said, shoving him against a wall. 
``Give me your wallet.'' The tall man reluctantly did as he was told. The sailor took all the  cash and handed it back, ``You. . . you, thief,'' the man choked. 
``I didn't take anything, did I fellows?'' 
``Never saw anything,'' Reynolds said with a shrug. 
``No sir, I didn't see nothin' either,'' the porter added. 
The sailor then grabbed a handful of the collar and pulled the tall man so close they  were nose to nose. ``I think it best if one of us leaves this town,'' his voice was a hiss and his  eyes were cold. ``You understand my meaning?'' 
The tall man simply nodded. ``I have business in Texarkana, sir.'' The sailor let him  go and smiled. ``You all have a good trip,'' he mocked. The man made a quick exit. 

The Lieutenant grinned, pealed five twenty­dollar bills from the wad and handed it to  the bellhop. ``You buy the missus something real fine.'' 
The old man's grin almost tore his face apart. 
``If you meet me in the restaurant over there in about an hour,'' the sailor said to 
Reynolds, ``I'll make sure the rest of this finances a night like this town has never seen.'' 
``Lawrence Reynolds, sir, United States Army.'' Reynolds held out his hand. ``I'll  gladly take you up on that.'' 
His hand was grasped in a grip of iron. `Nimitz, Chet Nimitz, US Navy.'' 
An hour later he caught up with Nimitz in the restaurant flashing his most charming  smile for one of the pretty waitresses. 
``I hope you don't mind my ordering for you,'' Nimitz said, ``steak, catfish fillets and  shrimp.'' 
Then he leaned forward and spoke softly. ``That bellhop told me we should report to  this address,'' he said, waving a small piece of paper in the air, ``and we will be well taken  care of.'' 
The sound of crickets and cicadas mixed with the sounds of music as the two men sat  later on the verandah, their feet up, drawing on their cigars. ``A meal tastes better when  it's paid for by someone else,'' Nimitz said. 
``I never did thank you,'' Reynolds said. 
``You soldier boys never get out enough,'' Nimitz remarked. ``When you spend a few  weeks in a seaport, you get so you can spot things like that.'' 
``Why'd you let him go?'' 
``Hell, you and I will be long gone before he `d stand before a judge.'' 
He took another draw on the cigar. ``You here for the conference?'' 
Reynolds sat back. ``That's supposed to be secret.'' 
Nimitz laughed, ``Hell, I gave my presentation this afternoon. What's your specialty?'' 
``Airships,'' Reynolds replied. 
Nimitz tapped himself on the chest, ``Submarines. I was aboard the first sub, the 
Holland.'' 
``I don't think I could go to sea in a boat designed to sink,'' Reynolds said. 
``I don't think I could fly in the sky like a big god damn turkey,'' Nimitz shook his  head. 
``Turkeys can't fly.'' 
``Right.'' 
``I've flown in a couple of airplanes, but I usually fly a dirigible,'' Reynolds said. ``Like  a big steerable balloon. The Navy's getting them, too. I'm last on the program `cause I have  to talk about zeppelins.'' 

``Don't worry about the dog and pony show,'' Nimitz said. ``They don't listen anyway. 
Watch out for Senator McCloud. Don't try to pull the wool over his eyes.'' 
The two men smoked their cigars and drank their coffee, then got up to check out the  address the bellboy had given them. He was right. They were very well taken care of. 
Captain Reynolds and Lieutenant Chester Nimitz parted next morning for the last  time. It was the kind of friendship that makes military life bearable. ``Hope your boat  always floats, swabby,'' Reynolds said. 
``Hope you don't fall down and break your beak, flyboy, '' Nimitz shook his head. 
``Don't see much of a future in those flying machines.'' 
``Captain Lawrence Reynolds of the 354th Aerial Observation Group, Fort Myers, 
Virginia, Signal Corps, United States Army,'' the aide announced. Reynolds entered the  conference room with all the military decorum he could muster. He dropped his hat, which  the aide retrieved and handed to him with a smile. 
The large room was finished in wood and all the gingerbread trim of the time. Three  large fans rotated from the ceiling with a `shoop, shoop,' background noise as well as the  cricket chirp of their bearings. A large blackboard and an easel bearing a flip chart stood in  front of a series of tables that formed a U. Military offcers sat at the right U and civilians,  left, and center. All the military were field grade offcers. Most of the civilians had taken off  their jackets and were using hand fans advertising a local funeral parlor to keep sweat from  their faces. Each had a note pad and an ice filled glass. The back of the room contained two  rows of folding chairs, the occupants of which were younger and wore suits and ties. These  were presumably the aides, assistants and secretaries. 
``Welcome, Captain,'' a large, balding, red­faced man sitting at the main table said  loudly, ``Allow me to introduce the panel. To my right is General. . . '' 
Reynolds was impressed. He studied their faces knowing this was the final presentation  and, like school boys before the final bell, his audience was antsy. These men felt themselves  powerful and influential. All were fully aware that governmental and military decisions  would entail money, and those decisions would be based on good old fashion politics. Not  something as mundane as facts. So many felt these conferences a waste of time, thought up  by the Taft administration to remove them temporally from their positions of power. Many  were right. 
Reynolds passed out the booklets he had slaved over for the past week. He was a good  public speaker, but always had pre­speech jitters. His stomach felt like a nest of snakes and  he suddenly he wanted to pee. 
``Gentlemen,'' he began, ``at the present time aircraft are considered to be useful only  as observation platforms and in this role they are without equal. However, the dirigibles of  the Zeppelin company have moved into other areas which may have military applications,  mainly people­moving and freight hauling.'' 
``Zeppelins are rigid as compared with nonrigid airships. Our own airships are of the  non­ridged variety. They are a long balloon with a gondola that contains the cockpit for the  pilot and observer and an engine to power them. Ridged airships have frames that house 
the balloons internally, like as if I parked my dirigible in a barn and flew off with it.'' A few  members of the audience chuckled at the thought. ``German Zeppelins usually have eight or  more gas cells within their structure. The advantage of this is a much larger and stronger  structure allowing a greater lifting capacity and much longer range. Zeppelins have already  remained aloft for twenty­four hours and traveled over a thousand miles non­stop.'' 
Most of the audience seemed to be paying attention, even though a few had to suppress  yawns. Reynolds told how Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin had been a foreign observer during  the American Civil War. There he saw the exploits of Thaddeus Lowe's observation balloons. 
The count's own craft first flew in 1900, three years before the Wright brothers conquered  the air at Kitty Hawk. Zeppelin overcame numerous setbacks and crashes and began the  world's first air passenger service, nine years later. In the past 12 months he had safely  carried hundreds of people and tons of freight. His audience paid attention when he spoke  of the interest in zeppelins by the German military and the contract to supply their Navy  with these craft. It was rumored a similar contract would be made with the German Army. 
Reynolds touched on negative aspects of the zeppelin. It's great size meant it was often  victim to weather, and as the Germans used highly explosive hydrogen as a lifting agent,  stringent fire protection was a must. 
``As to the zeppelin in warfare.'' The entire panel was now paying attention. ``As an  observation platform the zeppelin knows no equal. It can cruise at will far from any land or  naval checkpoint and see enemy activity beyond the horizon.'' 
``Providing the weather is clear,'' Senator McCloud broke in. 
``Yes, sir,'' Reynolds continued, ``providing the weather is clear.'' 
His brow was beginning to load with sweat. ``We have heard from sources that the 
Krupp works is presently working on naval canons with a range of twenty miles or more to  take advantage of this capability. An enemy fleet could fire on ours, without our ships seeing  them.'' 
One of the Admirals guffawed over that statement. 
``What sources, Captain?'' Senator McCloud asked. 
``Well. . . Popular Mechanics Magazine,'' was Reynolds' embarrassed reply, which  brought a round of laughter from the panel. 
He heard one of the generals lean over to the colonel next to him and say, ``I hope he  doesn't start quoting the Police Gazette.'' 
Reynolds was angry. These were the pinheaded peacetime bureaucrats he was forced to  work with. The generals who dreamed of leading a saber­waving cavalry charge and admirals  who wistfully longed for the days of wooden ships and iron men. 
``I would hope the information in Popular Mechanics is common knowledge to the Army  and Navy intelligence communities,'' He stated flatly. Both the admirals and generals were  taken aback by the authority in his voice. ``A German fleet equipped with such weapons  guided by zeppelins could destroy your ships before you knew they were there.'' 

His audience was stunned. Reynolds continued, ``Then there is the possibility of using  the zeppelin as an offensive weapon. We've experimented with dropping explosives, actually  modified artillery shells from airplanes. The effect is quite impressive. The zeppelins can  carry a bigger payload, much higher. 
``Are you suggesting a battle between these gas bags and my battleships?'' One of the  admirals shouted angrily. ``The idea is preposterous.'' 
``Not unless you have the guns and gunners who can hit a target four or five thousand  feet in the air traveling at sixty miles­an­hour,'' Reynolds countered, ``and I don't think you  do.'' 
The admiral's jaw got tight. ``I'm not sure I like your tone, young man,'' he said tersely. 
The Senator broke in, ``Admiral, I'm sure the young man believes very strongly in  what he says, and his views need to be taken into account by this committee.'' 
He turned to Reynolds and scowled, his look saying: ``And you, young man, remember  where you are.'' His voice said, ``Continue, Captain.'' 
A penitent Reynolds continued, ``I believe aircraft like the zeppelin can transport troops  and supplies, deliver bombs on our supply lines and troops, and act as the best observation  platforms. They will be a force to be reckoned with in future combat.'' 
He let out a quiet sigh of relief. He had made it through, although not unscathed. 
Making a big show of lighting his pipe, a congressman asked: ``Do you expect us to be  seriously afraid of a weapon that can easily be destroyed with this match?'' 
``Sir, you would have to throw that match thousands of feet in the air, or carry it miles  behind enemy lines to their bases,'' Reynolds replied. ``At the present time we can't do it.'' 
``Captain,'' Senator McCloud's voice roared out. ``Would you recommend the govern­  ment of the United States purchase one of the vessels?'' 
Reynolds beamed. ``Yes sir, I would,'' he replied. ``It would give us a huge step up in  this science.'' 
``Maybe the Germans could just fly it over,'' the senator remarked sitting back in his  chair. The audience chuckled. 
``I don't think they can with the present engineering,'' Reynolds tried to muster his  courage, ``but I think that day's not too far off. They'll be able to do it before the end of the  decade.'' This stirred a hubbub from the crowd. Reynolds continued, ``Future generations  will fly across all the oceans with as little thought as we sail them today.'' 
Reynolds knew his next words would really put his career on the line. ``I believe before  the end of the decade, zeppelins, loaded with bombs, could pose a serious threat to American  coastal cities.'' 
His audience was silent. Such a concept was pure fantasy. 
The senator looked to see if there were any other questions. ``Thank you, Captain,''  he said, ``for an interesting presentation, and especially for the look in your crystal ball.'' 

On the train back to Washington, Reynolds mulled over what he had said. It had  not been a pleasant experience, and he hoped next time he was called upon to make a  presentation he would have the foresight to crack his skull like the major. The Army hadn't  given him enough money to get a berth in a Pullman, so he sat with his head propped  against the window listening to the rhythmic clack of the wheels. The conductor had been  through and dimmed the lights. Someone snored softly. An hour passed as he watched the  firefly lights of passing homes, until he was finally at peace: ``It doesn't matter. Nothing will  come of it anyway,'' he thought. 
Two weeks after his return from Arkansas, Reynolds was at work and into the day­to­  day paperwork that accompanies research when he was called to his commander's offce. 
Colonel Hill motioned him into a chair and offered him a cigar, which he politely  refused. ``I have a number of letters concerning your presentation in Hot Springs,'' the  colonel said, as he brought out a small pack of papers. He put on a pair of reading glasses. 
```Said offcer's demeanor bordered on insubordination. Indulged in the wildest and most  fanciful fantasies.' I like that one. `Offcer should be told to keep his imagination in check.''' 
``You must have made quite an impression on the staff members,'' the colonel chuckled. 
``I'll have to file these in the right receptacle,'' he said, dropping them into the trashcan. 
He took another letter from the desk. ``Captain Reynolds presented a forceful, imag­  inative and instructive presentation. He showed he is well versed in his subject, firm in his  convictions and is to be commended. I would like to discuss this subject with him further  in my offce at one o'clock Wednesday, July 14, 1911. Signed, Senator Thomas McCloud.'' 
Hill handed the letter to Reynolds. ``He outranks the others,'' he said. ``You'll have  to confirm the appointment. The instructions are on the letter.'' Reynolds stood in shocked  silence. ``Carry on, Captain,'' the colonel said, as he saluted. 
Washington D.C. in summer tries to remind the citizenry of the days when it was a  southern swamp. The hot, damp air is thick enough to swim through, and one gets the  pleasure of spending the day wringing wet with sweat. On the other hand, it is an extremely  exciting city. In 1911 the Mall was like a giant picnic ground, with gaily­dressed people  sitting on blankets or strolling along the gravel pathways. Lining the pathways were venders  selling lemonade, Italian ice, hot dogs and souvenirs. 
Reynolds boarded one of the new electric trolleys and was soon heading down Con­  stitution Avenue toward the Capitol. Most of the passengers were tourists who took this  ride because it circled the Mall allowing them easy access to all the monuments, museums  and government buildings. As he was meeting an U. S. Senator, he was dressed in his finest  uniform, acutely aware of an attractive young woman coyly eyeing him from the seat across  the aisle. She was probably wondering why he did not take advantage of the signals she was  sending, but his mind was not on the ladies today. She got off at the White House stop and  flashed him a smile that told of what he would miss. 
He got off at the Capitol Building. A suffragette rally was in progress. His climb up  the steps put him above the heat of the city. A gentle breeze caressed him as he looked  down the Mall at one of the most beautiful views in the country, the Washington monument 
jutting skyward, the reflecting pond, finally the small hill beyond the Potomac and the Lee 
Mansion. The sight filled him with a love of country. He felt good being American and was  proud to wear his uniform. 
It was cooler in the Senate offce building thanks to newly installed exhaust fans on  the roof. Senator McCloud had amassed enough seniority and power to occupy an offce on  one of the upper floors. From the elevator, Reynolds faced a long empty hall lit by a small  window at the far end. The hallway was lined with a number of large ornate doors, each  with a Senator's name engraved on a small plaque. 
``Enter,'' said a feminine voice from within, which mildly surprised Reynolds. He found  himself in a room with filing cabinets and a large central desk behind which sat an attractive,  but not too attractive, thirtyish looking, woman at a typewriter. ``Captain Reynolds?'' she  asked in a honeyed voice with a hint of Southern accent, ``The Senator is expecting you.'' 
She rose and opened a door opposite the one he entered. ``Captain Reynolds, to see you,  sir,'' she announced. 
The inner offce was the finest he had ever seen. Fine wood paneling with ornate trim  graced the walls. The stone fireplace had a model of a warship of the Great White Fleet  on the mantle. On the opposite wall hung a moose head. The Senator was behind a large  oak desk with his back to a big window. Light flooded the room giving him a very godlike  appearance, which was exactly how he wanted it. 
As his eyes adapted, Reynolds became aware of two other people, a dark­haired, Army 
Offcer and a swarthy, middle­aged man. They rose as Reynolds entered. 
``Captain,'' the Senator said directing him to the dark haired man, ``Lieutenant John 
Snider, from the War Department and,'' he turned to the other man, ``Stanley Boyer, rep­  resenting the Treasury.'' Reynolds' mind was working feverishly. The War Department he  could understand, but the Treasury? Boyer didn't look like an accountant --- and that left  the Secret Service. 
The Secret Service had only recently been asked to protect the president. Before that  it was the principal law enforcement and intelligence gathering agency replacing civilian  organizations such as Pinkerton's Detective Agency, that often ran roughshod over obvious  conflicts of interest. In the future, the Secret Service would spawn such diverse organizations  as the FBI and CIA, but in 1911, they did it all. 
``We've read your transcripts and have decided there is a possible danger to the security  of the United States,'' the Senator began. ``Not as big a danger as you might assume. You  failed to take one point in account. German generals are just as likely to have over­inflated  egos, as are ours.'' 
``In peacetime real soldiers rarely rise to the top,'' he said as he swiveled in his seat. 
``They are good men, but accountants and clerks, not military men. We pick military leaders  in peace for the way they balance the books.'' 
``So what to do? Buy a zeppelin? No money. Besides, by the time we learned everything  about it, the science would be obsolete. Our best option is to plant someone with the Zeppelin  company.'' 

``A spy?'' Reynolds asked, not sure what direction this was going. 
``A spy,'' the senator beamed, ``of course. Someone who can give us current information  about all aspects of the engineering involved.'' 
``Who?'' Reynolds asked suspiciously. 
``I have just the man,'' Boyer said handing Reynolds a brown folder. ``That's his  dossier. Speaks fluent German, intelligent, technically adept, loyal and hard working, but  with a certain instinctive deviousness the job requires.'' He smiled, ``Read.'' 
``Out loud please, Captain,'' the Senator said jovially. 
``Name, Levi Samuel Reinhold, born April 30, 1888, in Strasbourg, Lancaster county, 
Pennsylvania. Father Juda Rhinehart, blacksmith. Mother's maiden name Ruth Ellerman. 
Rhinehart is the fourth child.'' 
``Subject shows a natural talent for things mechanical. At the age of seventeen, subject  ran away from home as his ambition and talents conflicted with the Amish lifestyle. Subject  changed his name to avoid the stigma of being a Pennsylvania Dutchman and moved to 
York, Pennsylvania. A diploma from York High School says he graduated fifth in his class. 
The diploma is a forgery. Subject worked his way to Washington, where, with unusual  persistence, a camera and the help of a prostitute, he managed an appointment to West Point  from Congressman Gerald Frolich, 67th Congressional District, Pennsylvania. Graduated  twenty­fifth in his class from West Point Class of 09.'' 
``Outstanding active duty record. Subject presently serving as captain in United States 
Army's Signal Corps, 354th Aerial Observation Group, Fort Myers, Virginia, under the name  of Reynolds, Lawrence'' 
Reynolds felt like a rat in a trap. 
``Please, Captain, don't be concerned,'' the Senator said. ``We're not trying to railroad  you. As to your schooling, your record should override that. I don't think Congressman 
Frolich would want to see any action. Besides, you're the first appointee that S.O.B. has  ever recommended based on anything other than the father's bank account. As to your name,  you are hardly the only person who's Anglicized your name. Just ask Stanislas Boykonewsky  there,'' he said, pointing to Stanley Boyer. 
``You're the best man for the job,'' the Senator concluded. 
``You may remain in the Army, if you chose, and be eligible for all promotions and  privileges. We have some special regulations for Army people who are on --- detached service  to Mr. Boyer,'' Lieutenant Snider added. 
Reynolds gazed absently at the dust motes floating in a sunbeam near his foot. 
The senator leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. ``And you  get to play with zeppelins.'' 

Spies 
``By the way, congratulations are in order.'' Boyer told him, as they sat in Wolfram's cabin. 
``How so?'' 
``You are now offcially Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence Reynolds, US Army.'' 
Reynolds scratched his ear, ``That's real fine, but why send the US chief of the Secret 
Service in Europe to deliver the message.'' 
Boyer laughed, ``I like to get into the field on occasion. Keeps the reflexes sharp and  keeps me in touch with the problems faced by agents.'' 
``By the way,'' he asked nodding toward the door, ``how is your cover holding up?'' 
``You mean the Dantzlers?'' Reynolds beamed. ``Salt of the earth. I'm going to truly  miss them when this is over.'' 
One of the hardest things about planting a mole is giving that person a solid background  that will stand up under close scrutiny by the enemy's security forces. The Dantzlers were  a Godsend. 
Rudolf Waltram inherited a company that was a walking corpse. His father had overex­  tended their credit and negotiated contracts they could not fulfill. The company specialized  in building gauges for industrial equipment, ships, submarines, aircraft and now zeppelins. 
European capital was hard to come by, but he received a good offer from an American firm  that would allow them to acquire many of the patents of Waltram's company. The American  firm was heavily into War Department contracts supplying special equipment to shipyards  and armories. This was where Boyer came in. The Secret Service was the only organization  that could gather clandestine information on these foreign nationals. As he scanned the data  on the list of questionable employees, Boyer's eyes saw the name Dantzler, Hans, engineer. 
His son, Eric, was facing execution in Massachusetts on the charge of murder. Investigators  found Eric Dantzler had shot a man after graduating from MIT. A plan formed in Boyer's  mind. 
He talked to Wolfram, questioning him about the Dantzler family; then he made his  offer: If he could persuade the Dantzlers to `adopt' one of Boyer's agents for a period of five  years, the contract was his. He would see Eric Dantzler would be pardoned and sent back  to Switzerland at the end of this period. He also asked Wolfram to use his influence to get  his agent a job with the Zeppelin company. 
Reynolds was rushed through training and received a course in mechanical engineering,  where he already had a background. 
Hans Dantzler retired from the Wolfram company with a better­than­average pension,  thanks to Wolfram and Boyer, and moved to Constance. A few months later they greeted 
their `son' newly graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in America. 
They never knew Reynolds' real name, or his mission. It was best for everyone. At first  they felt strange about the arrangement, but Reynolds was so physically like their son, the  play­acting was easy and, and in other ways he was better. The real Eric Dantzler was evil. 
``If I truly wanted to thank those people,'' Boyer thought, ``I'd have their son executed.'' 
At an early age Eric Dantzler had learned to manipulate those who were stronger,  and terrorize those who were weaker. Classmates that crossed him were beaten if they were  weak. If they were strong he found other ways, like a family pet slaughtered on the front  door. Girls who yielded to his charms found their reputations ruined. A father had given  him a thorough thrashing after catching him in the barn with his daughter. A week later  the man's home was burned to the ground. 
He was mean and vicious. When he was sixteen, he complained about the quality of  a meal. His actual words were, ``What the hell, I guess you can't expect a cow to cook.'' 
His father, hearing the words, exploded across the room, never hesitating as he unleashed a  right cross that fractured the boy's jaw. It was the first time he had ever struck him. 
``This house will burn, too,'' Eric hissed through a rapidly swelling jaw. 
Hans Dantzler grabbed him by the collar and spat in his face, ``You better make sure  you do it right the first time. You won't get a second chance.'' 
When the rage subsided Hans Dantzler gathered his wife in an embrace and together  they cried for a long time. An uneasy truce reigned in the household. 
On the other hand, Eric was a genius, always top of his class, excelling in sports and  always in his teacher's good book. He was careful to never bring his nastiness to school. 
When he brought up the idea of going to college in America, his parents quickly agreed. The 
Dantzler's hoped it would change him, but they were glad to be rid of him. 
It only got worse in America. In the first year he was charged with rape, but the  charges were dropped. Eric then produced enough witnesses to put the parentage of the  subsequent child in doubt. 
Threatened with expulsion a number of times, he curtailed his activities enough to  graduate. At one of the many graduation parties he attended, he became interested in a  red­haired Irish girl who wanted no part of him, but he made it very clear he wanted part of  her. He caught her later in the kitchen, clapped a hand over her mouth, bent her over the  table, and hiked up her skirts. She didn't tell the authorities, but she did tell her brother. 
A few days later, Eric found himself facing six Irish toughs with baseball bats who dragged  him into a back alley, and worked him over while the cop on the beat (the girl's uncle) stood  guard at the entrance of the alley. The toughs were good, careful not to kill him, knock him  unconscious or cause blood to flow. He was hospitalized for over a month. The doctors said  he would never have children. 
One month later he went to the brother's house, and when he opened the door, shot  him in the knee. Methodically, he shot him in the other knee, both shoulders, the groin and  the stomach. He did it slowly, savoring each shot. The court that convicted him knew this 
because, unknown to Dantzler, the boy's lover had hidden in a closet, fearing the knock on  the door was her father. 
Reynolds filled the hole left by this monster and for the first time in their lives the 
Dantzlers were like family, feeling towards him in a way they could never feel about their  own child. Even though the five­year contract had expired, they seemed happy to let their  son in prison. 
Reynolds sat back, ``I can understand you wanting to spend a few days in a lovely  mountain retreat, but what's the real reason you're here?'' 
``We're on to something that may be very big,'' Boyer began, ``and your boss, Buch, is  in it up to his balls.'' 
``Buch?'' 
``Have you ever heard anything about a some sort of tactical plan he submitted to High 
Command back in `14?'' Boyer asked. 
Reynolds sat quietly thinking, ``No, nothing that I recall.'' 
``Well something's up,'' Boyer said, ``It concerns Peiter Strasser and a scheme called 
`Volant'.'' From the look on Reynolds' face, Boyer could tell he was drawing a blank. 
Reynolds told him about the offer he received from Boche and the special project he  was supposed to be involved in. ``Think it was anything to do with `Volant' ?'' 
``It might be a coincidence,'' Boyer said with a shrug, ``but I'd say you should take the  job.'' 
``You know this really stinks.'' 
``How so?'' 
``If I do a good job and the Allies lose, I have a real cushy job waiting for me. If the 
Germans lose, I go back on the government payroll.'' 
Boyer laughed, ``So it goes.'' 
Reynolds looked deep in thought, ``I don't know if it's important, but the company  seems to have misplaced three zeppelins.'' 
``Pretty hard to misplace a zeppelin.'' 
``Well LZ 99, LZ 100 and LZ 101 aren't on the schedule. I know I've seen them on earlier  ones, but now they're gone. When I asked they said it was to confuse Allied intelligence.'' 
``They do that, don't they?'' Boyer interjected. 
``Sure, after they leave the factory. The company doesn't care what numbers they  paint on the sides. But production numbers aren't changed, especially after they already  began production. Do you know how many documents would have to be altered? It just  isn't done.'' 
``What do you think it means?'' 
``I don't know.'' 

Boyer sat back and lit a cigar. ``We need you to dig up whatever you can on Buch's  plan or this `Volant' thing. Preferably hard copies.'' 
Reynolds was alarmed, ``I can't do that. I'm not that kind of a spy. I don't know  how.'' 
Reynolds was right. There were many different breeds of spies. Some collected strategic  secrets like Sydney Black, vital information that had to be in Allied hands as soon as possible. 
For others, like Reynolds, it was technical data that, although important, rarely required  immediate action. Reynolds only filed on a monthly basis, sending letters to his `aunt' in 
Leipzig. 
``Don't worry,'' Boyer said, ``you will be contacted by an expert. You'll have the tools  and help you'll need. We spent too much time and effort to have your cover blown.'' 
``That it?'' Reynolds asked. 
``Yep,'' Boyer answered. ``What do you say we go outside and enjoy the mountain  air?'' Stanley Boyer transformed himself into Senior Ricardo Cervara and Lawrence Reynolds  assumed the role of Eric Dantzler. The two rose and joined the others outside, under the  cold, star filled, night sky. 

Sydney Black 
The taxi driver wondered about his passenger. He was the first black man he had ever seen. 
Apparently he couldn't speak German and had given him a small piece of paper with an  address on it by way of directions. The passenger had the blank stare one associates with  the mentally retarded. 
In the back seat, Sydney Black contemplated what he was about to do and why he  was doing it. The Swedish diplomat who acted as his courier had given him a large tip,  appearing drunk as he stuffed a number of folded bills into Sydney's breast pocket. Sydney  beamed and said, ``Thank you, sir.'' 
In his quarters, Sydney unfolded the bills and took out a six­inch newspaper clipping  for a cabaret. On the back of the advertisement was a partial list of stock quotations. 
Although the ad and the companies listed on the stock quotes were real, the prices ere not. 
Each coincided with the page, column and line in an English­German dictionary that was  not unusual to find in an American's room. Sydney spent hours decoding the message: 
NEED MORE INFORMATION VOLANT  STOP 
ASAP STOP 
USE ALL MEANS NECESSARY STOP 
PRIORITY ALPHA BETA ALPHA STOP 
REPEAT ALPHA BETA ALPHA STOP 
This was the highest possible priority and meant the information was of utmost im­  portance. He had never received this code before. Recent Wednesday meetings had not been  productive. No talk of `Volant' or Buch. He had to come up with a plan that could produce  results fast, someone who was in a position to acquire the information and who could be  made to cooperate. It was a couple of weeks before he zeroed in on Captain Gurta Krause,  an offcer in the Imperial Record and Documentation Section of the Command bureau with  access to secret documents. He always came to La Baroness with friends, but rarely went  with the girls who secretly laughed at his performance. One of them gave Sydney the idea  he needed. ``I think he likes boys,'' she said. 
Now he was in this taxi heading for a tryst with Krause. 

SYDNEY BLACK 71 
The cab stopped outside a row home in a dark alley. The black man got out. ``Five  marks,'' the driver shouted as if understanding was tied to volume. The black man shrugged. 
``Marks,'' the driver said again, ``money.'' The black man beamed, and held out a handful  of bills. The driver took a ten­mark note, and drove away. ``I deserve a tip for that one,'' he  muttered. 
The door was opened by an old crone with folded skin, who motioned him in, and to  go up a staircase to the second floor where a door was opened by a very nervous Captain 
Krause. 
It was a cheap room with a sloped ceiling and a kerosene lamp that threw sharp  shadows on the yellowed walls. There was one window with a view of the brick wall across  the alley three feet away, a dressing table on which stood a bottle and two glasses, and a  shabby bed. It was the sort of room where hookers took their tricks. 
Krause offered Sydney a cigarette, which he refused with a wave. Krause had a hard  time lighting his, his hand shook so. ``I've never done anything like this,'' he murmured. 
He poured the liquor into the glasses and handed one to Sydney. Both men emptied them  in a gulp, and Krause refilled them. As Sydney sipped this second glass Krause slipped  behind him and began to run his hands across his back, gently working his way down to his  buttocks. Then Krause was in front of him sinking to his knees, hands feverishly undoing  his belt. Sydney took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ``Ammi,'' he cried silently. 
These meetings became a weekly event. As everyone else who worked for Ammi got  a day off, she couldn't very well deny him one. What was worse, Krause started hanging  around La Baroness like a love­sick puppy. Sydney knew he had to take charge, and soon. 
Sydney began to drink heavily one night and made Krause keep up with him. He  suggested they retire to his room in the basement where they drank more. Unseen, he  poured a small vial of liquid into Krause's drink. The next morning Krause remembered the  sex, the booze, and a bright light, but little else. He was terribly sick and late for work. As  he sneaked out of the basement Ammi saw him leaving. She knew about every form of sex,  so it didn't surprise her. What did was that Sydney was involved. 

Nordholz 
Buch returned to Elmsdorf refreshed and invigorated. His two­week respite from the base  was time well spent. He finished the `Volant' plan as Strasser requested and spent a lot of  time with Sherry. 
Young and vibrant, filled with the naivet’e and hope of youth, she made him forget the  war. They visited Cologne for shopping and the theater. Although there were shortages in  the marketplace and the show was second­rate, walking with her was like traveling with a  miniature sun. She brightened everywhere she went. At home they talked, never about the  war. Trying to impress him with her domestic talents, Sherry cooked, with Frau Kohler's  help, and played the piano while he sat in his favorite chair before the fire, smoking his pipe,  and letting his mind drift. 
But he was back at work now and had to catch up on the workings of the last few weeks. 
Gerber and Diehl told him repairs on L 38 were near completion and the only mission flown by  the squadron was a milk run reconnaissance by L 45. Several enlisted men had been cited for  insubordination and two went AWOL. Buch nodded, one can't run a military organization  without discipline, but these actions were on the upswing. The Maybach representative, 
Dantzler was back from leave and they had been assigned an over­zealous commander of  security forces, a Major Goldberg, a real pain in the neck. 
``A Jew,'' Diehl offered. 
It was nearing noon before the three men had finished, Buch stretched and Diehl  suggested the offcer's mess for lunch. That sounded like the best idea of the day. As they  were leaving the offce, Buch came face to face with a ramrod straight, one­armed soldier  wearing an eyepatch, who snapped to attention as if his spine was spring steel. 
``Major Joshua Goldberg, Commander, 157th security detachment, sir,'' he said with  a salute and a click of his heels. 
``And I am Otto von Buch. They tell me I'm in charge of this place. At ease, please, 
Major.'' 
``Why was I not informed the Major was waiting?'' Buch asked Shultz 
``I told him not to disturb you, sir,'' Goldberg answered for him. 
``We were on our way to lunch, Major. Would you care to join us?'' 
Goldberg was visibly taken aback; he had not expected the navy men to be so friendly. 
The food at the mess was better than Goldberg was used to. But he seemed stiff and  out of place. Buch wondered if here would have been a problem had it been pork. Buch  didn't know much about the Jewish religion. 

Diehl asked abruptly: ``Where did you lose your arm?'' The other two men gave him  a dirty look. 
``What?'' Said Diehl with a shrug, ``Somebody had to ask.'' 
Their discomfort caused Goldberg to smile. ``I didn't actually lose it, you know,'' he  said. ``I know exactly where it is.'' 
The ice between the men cracked and conversation began to flow. ``All right,'' Buch  said, pointing to the empty sleeve, ``How did that happen?'' 
Goldberg told them the story of the Cossack charge, minimizing his role in the attack. 
``I was told we scored a great victory.'' He looked at his empty sleeve with his remaining  eye. ``I had a hard time with that.'' 
The three zeppelin men were silent for a moment, all were combat veterans, but none  had ever come so close to the enemy. 
``Well, Major, what do you think of our home away from home?'' Gerber asked. 
``It's a little too much like home,'' Goldberg said as he took a bite of chicken. ``Your  security is awful.'' 
``We've never had a problem,'' Buch said. 
``You've never had a zeppelin explode but I notice you take considerable precautions,'' 
Goldberg remarked. ``Besides, a really good espionage agent or saboteur would try to assure  you didn't have a problem.'' 
``Maybe the Major would like to fly a mission with us,'' Diehl remarked. 
``Not me,'' Goldberg replied quickly, ``I'm afraid of heights.'' 
Back at Buch's offce the commander reviewed Goldberg's requests: Enclose the base  in a barbed wire fence, double the guard force and authorize extensive background checks,  especially of civilians working on the base. ``Do you think these measures are necessary, 
Major?'' 
``I do, sir.'' 
``You realize, Major, we are not exactly a high priority any more,'' Buch said looking  over the list. ``I will put in the requests, but I can't guarantee anything.'' Buch knew if 
`Volant' was approved Major Goldberg would get all he asked and much more. 
Goldberg saluted and left. Buch liked the man and maybe he was right. The British  had set up many observation posts up and down the English coast, but the number of  missions intercepted on the way to target didn't add up. Observers couldn't see a zeppelin  flying above the clouds, nor hear one that had throttled back and drifting at high altitude. 
``Maybe there are spies among us,'' he thought. 
The next morning Buch found a dispatch from headquarters on his desk. 
To Commander Otto Buch, 
Understand L 38 is due for shakedown. Will have berth available Feb. 12, Nordholz. 
Will be nice to see you. 

Frigate Captain P. Strasser 
Head of Naval Airship Command 
The message was clear, it was not a suggestion. 
He left his offce and walked across the field to zeppelin shed three, named Elsa, which  housed L 38, and came in through a side door. A guard saluted and handed Buch a basket  into which he placed his keys, pipe, penknife and matches, anything that possibly could  cause a spark. He was handed a pair of rubber galoshes that fit snugly over his boots to  prevent even the nails in the soles from possibly striking a spark. He hung his coat on a  hook and held his arms wide as the guard frisked him. The guard was nervous treating his  commanding offcer like this, but he knew if he failed to do so, there would be hell to pay  and Buch would have been the devil himself. 
``Clear, sir,'' the guard said. 
``Thank you, sailor,'' Buch said. ``You've done a good job.'' 
Buch entered the cavernous hangar where L 38 occupied most of the inner space, amid  scaffolding and electric lights. 
The hangar smelled of fuel, oil and the doped linen that covered the sides of the zeppelin  that still produced a particular odor. Sounds in the hangar were strangely amplified, voices  and noise of tools much louder than usual, thanks to an echo effect. The mass of the ship  would have eclipsed lights hanging from above, so all illumination was mounted to the sides  of the building, the lamps enclosed in box­like mountings to avoid igniting any stray gas. 
The Germans had never had a major accident in a zeppelin shed. 
As Buch walked toward the front of the ship, some of the men waved to him. Military  discipline was more relaxed here. Below the ship was a desk with a slanted top, which at the  present time was covered with blue prints being studied by a short fat man. His coveralls  were stained and his hair was tousled, while his nails were outlined with some black substance  that defied soap. Senior Chief Petty Offcer Mohne, Chief of Maintenance considered himself  the sole proprietor of every zeppelin stationed at Elmsdorf. His power was awesome: if he  said a zeppelin would not fly, it didn't. Only Buch had the authority to countermand him  and he wouldn't dare. 
Mohne spotted Buch out of the corner of his eye and presented a salute that was more  a wave. ``Hello, chief,'' Buch said. ``How's is she coming?'' 
She was, of course, the L 38, a grand lady, or a big bitch, depending on her condition  at the moment. Like seafarers, the zeppelin men always referred to their charges in the  feminine gender. 
``You must have popped half­a­million rivets and the gas bags were like Swiss cheese,'' 
Mohne was known to exaggerate. ``We had to repair all the flight controls and Dantzler  changed all six engines.'' 
``All of them?'' 
Mohne pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ``He received  new ones from the factory. Some kind of modification.'' 

Mohne reached into the desk and pulled out a bottle of Schnapps and took a swig. 
``God, I hate this weather,'' he said wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and offering  the bottle to Buch who waved it away, repressing a laugh. Only Mohne would try a trick like  that in front of his commander. He knew he could get away with it because he was good. 
``Will it be done by the tenth?'' Buch asked. 
``You can bet on it,'' Mohne answered. ``I'll take a bullwhip to the boys, but you'll  have to talk to Dantzler.'' 
``Were is Herr Dantzler, anyway?'' 
``Should be in pod three,'' Mohne said going back to the blueprints. 
Buch walked the length of the airship to below pod three and climbed the scaffolding. 
The cover was off the pod in order to install the new engine and Dantzler and another man  appeared to have their arms buried in the machine. ``Be with you in a minute sir,'' Dantzler  said with a grunt. A few minutes passed before he removed his arms from the engine and  laid down his tools. He reminded Buch of a surgeon finishing an operation. 
He grabbed a greasy rag and started to wipe his arm. The young assistant almost ran  from the scene, obviously in awe of the commander. 
``New engines?'' Buch said as he looked over the shiny metal. 
``Modified,'' Dantzler replied. ``Better carburetor heat and better bearings in the su­  perchargers. This one won't freeze up on you.'' 
``Will they be running by next week?'' 
``Should be.'' 
``I have to fly to Nordholz on the twelfth,'' Buch said, patting the engine. ``Do you  want to go along? We'll wring these out.'' 
``I would like to try them at high altitude,'' Dantzler said visibly excited. 
``I'll arrange it.'' 
On the tenth of February, Mohne certified L 38 fit for flight. At seven o'clock on the  morning of the twelfth the crew boarded the airship and the ground crew moved it out. As  the tail cleared the doors, Mohne walked up to it and patted the lower tail fin. ``Giving her  a little pat on the bum,'' he called it. The flight crew swarmed all over the craft looking for  anything the maintenance crew overlooked. At nine o'clock Buch gave the order, ``Up Ship.'' 
The ground crew released the lines and those who had grasped the gondola rail pushed  upwards. It looked like they were tossing the ship in the air, but the fact their weight no  longer held it down caused it to rise. The ground crew scurried away as Buch released water  ballast. At 0905, Buch gave the order to start the engines and one by one, the six 120 hp 
Maybachs roared into life. The zeppelin rose slowly and turned north, flying over the town  of Elmsdorf. Buch ordered the ship to 200 meters and set the cruise speed at 100 kilometers. 
The weather was unseasonably warm and sunny, with only a gentle breeze. For the  first few hours Dantzler busied himself going from engine to engine, having agreed the high  altitude run would be best done on the trip back. It wouldn't do to limp into Nordholz if 
something went wrong. Finally, with all six engines running like well­wound clocks, Eric  found himself with nothing more to do. So he headed towards the rear of the ship to the  tail gunner's position. The engines were so far forward they sounded like the drone of small  insects. 
The snow­covered land below was like a beautifully intricate carpet; even though it  was winter, green patches shone through the snow and houses looked like toys. Over ponds  and streams the sun twinkled across their surface. As they crossed a small lake, Eric gazed  down at the reflection of the airship's belly. Sometimes the air would carry the sound of  dogs barking, and people below shouted and waved. 
Alone, for a moment he became Lawrence Reynolds. The war would be over soon and  like every other soldier, he had a dream. He loved the zeppelins and realized their future lay  not in combat, but commerce. He imagined flying over the cornfields of Kansas or sailing  through mountain passes in the Rockies. Maybe New York to San Francisco in two days in  incredible comfort, even flying the Atlantic. It could be done. They showed that by flying 
4000 miles non­stop with supplies for German troops in Africa. 
They were nearing their destination. He quickly became Eric Dantzler again and  lowered himself into the ship. Men were running along the center walkway to their landing  positions. 
``Look,'' one of the mechanics yelled. Dantzler ran to a window and saw a base that  looked very similar to Elmsdorf. But what had caused the shout was a slim, greenish colored  airship that was not a zeppelin. 
``A Schutte­Lanz, '' Dantzler yelled back. 
Schutte­Lanz was the Zeppelin Company's only German competition. Their frames  were built of the new plywood, while the zeppelin's frame were duraluminum, an alloy of  aluminum. They were generally considered inferior. The wood tended to soak up water,  which made the ship dangerously heavy and the glue was not waterproof causing them to  delaminate. The Navy didn't like them but the one on the ground was an Army airship. 
Buch handled L 38 with finesse, and her landing at Nordholz was a grand entrance,  like a duchess at a ball. 
As the zeppelin was being moved into a shed, the crew was met by a staff car bearing  a young offcer who instructed the crew as to overnight accommodations. Being a civilian it  was decided Dantzler would bunk in the offcers' transit barracks. Captain Buch left with  the lieutenant in the staff car as soon as he had called the 27 men, who made up the crew,  and addressed them: 
``Mr. Diehl, I leave you in command of this rabble. We lift off at 0800. Have fun, but  remember you are the crew of the L 38.'' 
He sat in the back seat alone. The car stopped at the headquarters building, a large  concrete structure, unlike anything at Elmsdorf. The lieutenant jumped out to open the door,  and offered to carry the valise with the Volant plans in them. Buch politely refused. Inside  he was lead to the conference room on the second floor. Buch was not used to a conference 
room as large and luxurious. Nordholz was near the Navy base of Wilhelmshafen, and would  be here after the war. 
``Peter,'' he said extending his hand. Peter Strasser's face broke into a grin as he  grasped Buch's outstretched hand. ``Otto, my friend, it is good to see you. You had a  pleasant flight?'' 
Buch nodded. ``Let me introduce the others,'' Strasser said turning to the young man  to his left, `` Captain Albert Jaeger, my first offcer,'' and, turning to the man to his right, 
``Colonel Alfred Ziegler, our Army partner in this endeavor.'' 
Buch shook both men's hands wondering how they acquired an Army partner. He  hadn't included them in any of the plans. 
``The plan is in the preliminary stages,'' Strasser began. ``High Command is very  interested and I understand Ludendorff himself has read the outline and is intrigued. We  have been given a tentative approval and we have been allocated a small but useful budget  and three of the new super zeppelins are ready for modifications.'' 
``When can we expect a final decision?'' Ziegler asked. 
``It's no big secret Ludendorff is planning his offensive in the spring,'' Strasser replied. 
``For now most effort is being pushed in that direction.'' 
``In other words, we are sucking hind tit.'' 
``At present, yes. If the offensive is a success, we will have won the war and there will  be no need for us. However, if it is not. . . '' Strasser let the comment fade. 
``Let us pray to God there will be no need for us,'' Buch said. Ziegler gave him a dirty  look. 
``We have to be ready, nonetheless,'' Strasser interjected. ``Captain Buch has worked  out most of the details. We need to review them. So, gentlemen, let's get to work.'' 
The crew of the L 38 was left pretty much to their own devices as to finding their  barracks. They decided to examine of the Schutte­Lanz, as most of them had never seen  one. ``Hello,'' Diehl yelled up the gangway to the gondola. An Army captain greeted him, 
``May I help you?'' 
``My crew would like to look over your ship, with your permission, of course.'' 
The captain beamed, ``Welcome aboard. It's not much, but it's home.'' 
The first difference was the smell. Inside the Schutte­Lanz had a definite lumber­yard  odor. The wooden framework received the most interest. The captain was a good tour guide  and a comedian. ``We can get a lot more speed if we take it out of the crate,'' he remarked. 
The Army airship was equipped with a `skycar', a small torpedo­shaped capsule with  a small cockpit, which could be winched below the clouds while an observer stayed in touch  by telephone with the dirigible above the clouds. They could find a target and even bomb  it, without being seen. 
``Very popular with the men,'' the captain quipped. ``It's the only place they can  smoke.'' 

Dantzler managed to talk to a sergeant out of earshot of the captain. ``How's this thing  in the air?'' He asked casually. 
The sergeant looked to make sure he couldn't be overheard by anyone else. ``It scares  the crap out of me,'' he said. ``Even in calm air it creaks and squeals like an old woman. In  any kind of turbulence you'd think the whole thing would collapse like a house of matchsticks. 
When a stringer or bulkhead shatters it sounds like a gun going off. We call it `the flying  bonfire'.'' 
The zeppelin men left the Schutte­Lanz with a wave, but when their backs were turned  towards it you could hear them grumble: ``What a death trap.'' ``I'd desert before I served  aboard that beast.'' They felt sorry for the soldiers aboard her, and damn glad they were  zeppelin men. 
Strasser stretched and announced: ``Well, gentlemen, I believe we are finished.'' They  had spent a little over eight hours talking, arguing and sharpening different points of the  plan Buch had submitted. It would now go to the High Command for final approval. 
Buch finished the meeting with two important impressions: the plan would bring  victory for Germany, and Colonel Alfred Ziegler was a pompous ass. 
Strasser stood up. ``Would any of you care to join me for dinner?'' 
Jeager was the first to speak up, ``I'm sorry, sir, I have a previous commitment.'' 
``I've met your commitment, Jeager,'' Strasser laughed. ``A fine young lady.'' 
``I must be heading back to base,'' Ziegler announced as if saying he had a war to  conduct and the entire war effort would collapse without him. His base was east of Berlin  on a front now non­existent. 
Buch said. ``I'd gladly join you.'' 
It was exactly what Strasser had hoped, a chance to speak to Buch alone. 
On the other side of the base the crew, who had brought their dress uniforms, were  now all dressed up with no place to go. Diehl questioned the ensign in charge of the transit  quarters and learned of a place called ``The Golden Slipper'' that was popular and only a  kilometer off base. 
The Golden Slipper turned out to be a larger version of Shed Ten. The zeppelin crew  found there were more bodies in the place and yet was only half filled. They also noted a  sullen, morose look on the face of the patrons. The manager escorted them to the rear where  large parties were held. About fifty sailors were already well into their cups. Unlike the rest  of the patrons, they showed a certain pride and esprit de corps. The zeppelin men ordered  quickly, they had a lot of drinking to do to outdo this group. 
Strasser took Buch to an exclusive offcer's club off­base called the Bismarck. Riding in  the back of the staff car on the way there, he explained the Army's involvement. ``Politics,''  he said smacking his hand with his fist, ``stupid, ignorant politics. Ludendorff knows Volant  might succeed and, well, let's admit it, it just wouldn't do for the Navy to pull the Army's  irons out of the fire. They almost put Ziegler in charge, but I was adamant on that. You  will be in charge, or no­one.'' 

``I suppose I should be flattered,'' Buch said, ``I'm not sure I want my name connected  with it.'' 
``Why not?'' Strasser was surprised. ``It was your idea, your plan, in the first place.'' 
``But the changes?'' Buch almost whined. 
``Come, Otto,'' Strasser's voice was as if preaching to a new lieutenant, ``this is 1918. 
The times call for modern thinking. Remember what that American general said? The one  who brought the war to the civilians?'' 
``Sherman,'' Buch answered. ``He said, `War is hell.''' 
At the Golden Slipper, Diehl was heading back to the table after emptying some beer. 
As he walked back, he stared at one of the men. ``Becker, introduce me to your friends.'' 
``Excuse me, do I know you sir?'' 
Diehl looked at the man and then looked at his own group. ``Wait right here,'' he  told them. He returned with his Chief Petty Offcer. ``Chief Becker, meet Chief Becker.'' 
It was uncanny, not only the same name and rank, but except for an inch of height and an  inch of beard they two men looked identical. To complete the illusion, both had the number  thirty­eight embroidered on their hats. 
The zeppelin Becker pointed to himself and said, ``His majesty's Luftzeppelin L thirty  eight.'' 
His double rose: ``His Majesty's Unterseaboat U thirty eight.'' 
A cheer went up from the men who rode the sky, and the men who sailed under the  sea. The two groups merged, embracing each other as brothers. 
The Bismarck was luxurious, rivaling the best nightclubs in Berlin. It was filled with  beautiful young women, music, song and good food. There would be no raunchy songs or  ribald toasts here. As they were lead to their table, Strasser greeted a number of fellow  offcers, several of whom radiated hostility, which Strasser disarmed with a smile. 
When they were seated Strasser said, ``You'll have to excuse some of our colleagues. 
I'm afraid I'm considered a little mad.'' 
``I thought that was a prerequisite for being a zeppelin captain,'' Buch chuckled. 
``It's not that,'' Strasser said. ``Even with our failures, we see more combat than they  do. Since Jutland they've been tied to the dock and most resent it. There has been extensive  crew unrest and even rumors of mutinies. I don't want our squadrons to do the same. It's  like training a good hunting dog and not letting it hunt. If we don't defeat the allies soon,  we will defeat ourselves.'' 
``Ziegler seems to have the fighting spirit,'' Buch remarked. 
``He's a good captain, but his style is different to ours,'' Strasser said with a shake of  his head. ``He's got a ramrod up his rear. But he'll do his duty to the best of his ability,  that I guarantee.'' 
``He'll have to learn to handle a zeppelin,'' Buch said. ``They're a lot different to that  wooden wonder of his.'' 

Their food arrived and Strasser asked for more wine. ``Enough shop talk,'' he said  suddenly. ``I read the report about SE 4 over England. Tell me the real story.'' 
The crews of the L 38 and the U 38 were wonderfully drunk, swapping jokes and war  stories. The hilarity seemed to offend many of the surface Navy types who also patronized  the Golden Slipper. A group with the name RMS Danzig on their hats now filled the seats  the zeppelin men had vacated. Two of them had wandered near the two Beckers. ``Hey  zeppelin men,'' one shouted, ``I have some gas for you.'' With that he lifted a leg and fired  off a voluminous fart. 
The zeppelin men applauded loudly. ``With that one we could get to London and  back,'' Diehl proclaimed. Again everyone laughed. 
``Sure,'' the other big man shouted. ``Drop more bombs on British babies!'' 
There was a moment of quiet suddenly broken by the crack of the beer stein in Becker's  hand crushing the big man's chin. He flew back, landing on a table, blood covering his face. 
Becker seemed to have grown a foot taller. ``It'll be a frosty day in hell before I take crap  from a bathtub sailor.'' 
All hell broke loose as the crew of the `Danzig' rushed at the zeppelin men, fists, bottles  and chairs flying. The sub crew cheered the zeppelin men who were getting the upper hand  when sailors from the `Frederick the Great' jumped in. That's when the crew of the U 38  joined the fray. 
A right cross hit Dantzler's jaw. He countered with a beer bottle, and spotted two  men holding Diehl as a third pummeled him. He kicked the third man in the back of the  knee and smashed his fist into the side of his head. The men holding Diehl tried to flee, but  not before Dantzler tripped one of them. Diehl and he lifted a table and, using it as a shield  charged back into the battle. 
No one seemed to hear the whistles, or notice the squad of militarpolizei who invaded  the now­wrecked bistro. Dantzler even managed to deck one of them before a nightstick to  the side of the head ended his activities 
After an extremely good night's rest, the staff car carrying Captain Buch stopped at  the shed containing L 38. He had expected it to be out of the shed undergoing preflight  checks. Hardly anyone was there. At the far end of the building were several men. He  recognized `Ears'. ``Vogelsong,'' he shouted. ``Where is the rest of the crew?'' 
``In the brig, sir,'' came the reply. ``A fight, I think.'' 
``Why aren't you in the brig?'' 
``Some of us decided to go to the cinema, sir.'' 
Buch felt anger welling, but not toward these men. ``Do what you can to get the ship  ready.'' 
As he left he spotted one of the ground crew's NCOs. ``You men were supposed to  have that airship out of the shed by 0700,'' he yelled. 
``But you have no crew, sir.'' 

``Get me a car to take me to the brig, and get that zeppelin ready for flight!'' 
A half­hour later Buch was in the provost marshal's offce. 
``I'm here to pick up my crew,'' he demanded, ``the crew of L 38.'' 
The man behind the desk didn't bother to salute. ``I'm sorry, sir, but there are serious  charges against these men.'' He flipped through a pile of pages. ``Five hospitalized, one  with a severely­broken jaw, and extensive property damage. I can't release them without  the Provost Marshal's signature.'' 
``And where is the Provost Marshal?'' 
``On leave.'' 
``Leave?!'' 
``Yes, he'll be back in three days.'' 
``Lieutenant, '' Buch looked down at the name plate on the desk, ``Ellenburger, I will  see my men now.'' 
``I'm afraid. . . '' 
``Now, lieutenant!'' 
Ellenberger escorted Buch through a barred door and down a passageway to a cell. 
Inside, looking like guilty schoolboys, sat the crew of L 38. In their torn uniforms, bruised  and bloody. 
``Release them,'' Buch commanded. 
``Sir, I'm sorry the regulation states clearly. . . '' 
Buch had been angry for the past hour with no one to direct it against. He now had  a target. 
``Lieutenant Ellenburger stand at attention.'' His tone was a growl, his nose directly  in front of Ellenberger's. ``Now listen you pin­headed, flea­brained clerk. Some of us have a  war to fight. You not only have my entire crew in there, but Eric Dantzler, a Swiss national  whose father is the ambassador in Berlin and a personal friend of the Kaiser. When I'm  done with you, you'll be busted so low you'll salute a recruit's fart. You're in shit so deep  you'll need a very long straw to breathe. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!'' 
The cell door opened in a flash, and the hang­dog crew shuffed out. Buch thought  there were more men coming out of the cell then he had brought to Nordholz and could  swear he saw Becker walk by twice. 
Back in the offce, Ellenberger pleaded with him, ``Please sir, you'll have to sign for  them.'' 
Buch took the pen and wrote ``Commander Charles Vogelsong, Wilhelmshafen zeppelin  base.'' 
``There,'' he thought, ``that ought to keep them busy.'' 
He took his charges and marched them to the waiting zeppelin. 

Outside at least half the men quietly slipped away and by the time they reached the  zeppelin, he had the right number. The anger he felt had evaporated with the chewing out  he had given the lieutenant. 
Buch let the disheveled crew stand in silence for a minute, awaiting his chewing out. 
Instead he just looked at them and slowly shook his head. ``I can't take you people anywhere,''  he said. 
``Let's get out of here as soon as possible.'' 
They flew to Elmsdorf in stony silence. The men whispered to each other fearing to  be overheard and trigger Buch's wraith. All imagined the fate to fall on them once they  reached home. Buch scowled and snapped at everyone. 
It was play­acting. In reality, Buch was no longer angry. 

Adelgard 
After the L 38 returned to Elmsdorf from Nordholz, calm lay over the base like the snow  that now coating everything. The weather had worsened to a point where zeppelins could  not fly and they were snug in their sheds like butterflies in their cocoons. Restricted to  base for a week the zeppelin men went ice skating on a pond shared by the base and the  town and got a chance to do what young men like the most, pursue young ladies. Chief 
Mohne's maintenance team performed all the work they needed to and had actually run out  of work. . . all the ships were in top shape. 
Dantzler had expected to be contacted, as Boyer had promised, and wondered how  and when. He spent a lot of time puttering around in the Bearcat and played a lot of chess  with Darhower. 
Buch heard nothing from Strasser and busied himself with administrative details. 
Weekends were spent at home and he hadn't even visited Mariah at Shed Ten, much to  her dismay. 
The only serious work was being done by Major Goldberg's security detachment, who  had borrowed one of the empty zeppelin sheds to cut and point fence posts to support the  barbed wire he was sure was on its way. 
In the last weeks of winter the war seemed to hibernate. On the front that stretched  from the Swiss border to the English channel, little was happening. Occasionally a shell  would drop or a sniper fire a round or two and some still died. It reminded everyone the war  was still going. 
Then a whirlwind struck. . . . 
A little over five feet tall, it arrived in a swirl of silk and satin. 
Buch was in his offce doing some paperwork when he heard Shultz talking and a  woman's voice responding. . . A woman's voice? Buch couldn't remember ever seeing a  woman on base. The event was so unprecedented, he decided to investigate. 
He found Shultz talking to a very attractive lady. ``I'm sorry, Fraulien, I will have to  check with Captain Buch about that.'' Shultz was saying. The woman saw Buch coming  from the offce and headed toward him, leaving Shultz in mid­sentence. 
``Captain,'' she spoke in a honeyed voice, ``can you help me?'' 
Buch clicked his heels and gave a slight bow, going into his gallant­warrior­saving­the­  damsel­in­distress mode. ``Madam, I am your servant.'' 
``I'm trying to find my nephew, Eric Dantzler.'' Her voice floated through the air like  her perfume, soft, subtle, but undeniable. ``I was told he lives here and works on zeppelins. 
I asked around town and was told to come to you.'' 

Buch turned to Shultz, ``Find Mohne and ask him if he knows were Eric is. Hunt him  down and tell him his aunt is here to see him.'' 
``You may wait in my offce, if you would like,'' he said gesturing gallantly toward the  door. 
``Captain Otto von Buch,'' he said by way of introduction. 
``I am Adelgard Klopsic,'' she replied, offering him her hand, ``but please call me Gari.'' 
They chatted amicably. Buch learned she was from Leipzig and would be attending a  birthday ball in Essen, given by Bertha Krupp, heiress to the armaments fortune and cousin  of the emperor. 
As Essen was only a few miles to the north, she thought she would see her nephew and  do some shopping in Cologne, one of her favorite cities. 
She was beautiful, a fact that did not escape Buch's attention. Her age could have  been anything from twenty­five to forty­five. She had deep, rich, blond hair piled high on  her head and almond shaped, almost Oriental eyes, twinkling light blue. Her lips were full  and inviting and she had a very adequate bosom and small waist. 
Captivated by her bubbling, almost girlish, personality, Buch could not help being  aware of her sexuality. He found his mind wandering down paths that were hardly gallant,  or gentlemanly. 
He had never been in the presence of such a woman. It was nearly an hour before 
Dantzler showed up at headquarters. He looked puzzled as Gari launched herself across the  room and took him a tight embrace. ``Play along,'' she whispered, her lips close to his ear. 
``Eric,'' she crooned, ``give your Aunt Gari a kiss.'' 
``Aunt Gari,'' Dantzler said, joining in the ruse. ``What are you doing here?'' 
``I simply must attend a ball at the Krupp's,'' she said flashing a smile. ``By the way,  you are invited, too.'' 
``I didn't know you knew the Krupps personally,'' Buch said to Dantzler. 
``I didn't know my father was the Swiss ambassador to Berlin,'' Dantzler replied. Buch  blushed at the barefaced lie he used to get his men out of the brig. 
``Excuse me?'' Gari said in a puzzled tone. 
``It's a long story, I'm afraid,'' Buch told her. 
``Then you must tell me over diner,'' she said with a wink. 
Buch just had to agree. He never had a chance. 
Shed Ten was out as a destination, so the trio ended up in a small restaurant in 
Elmsdorf where the food was good and plentiful, even with the wartime shortages. Gari was  animated, not only a good speaker, but also a good listener. ``The lieutenant would not have  been impressed with Eric as a zeppelin mechanic, so I had to exaggerate just a little,'' Buch  concluded the story of their adventure in Nordholz, slightly intoxicated from the wine they  had consumed and Gari's presence. 

``It must be hard for you,'' she said to Buch, ``so much responsibility and being so far  from your wife and family.'' 
``I'm a widower, I'm afraid,'' he remarked, ``and my home and family are only a few  kilometers from here. '' 
``Aunt Gari,'' Dantzler asked, ``where will you be staying?'' 
``I had hoped you would have a little extra room,'' she answered. 
``I'll make room,'' he nodded. 
``Could you take me into Cologne to shop this weekend?'' she asked. ``It is so boring  going alone.'' 
``I'd love to,'' he started, but felt a sharp pain as she kicked him under the table, ``but 
I have to work on my car this weekend. Besides, you know how I hate shopping.'' 
``I have an idea,'' Buch interposed, ``my estate is on the way to Cologne and I'll bet  my daughter would love a shopping trip. We could stay overnight and take in a show. Make  a real weekend of it.'' 
``That sounds delightful,'' Gari agreed enthusiastically. 
``Men,'' she thought to herself, ``are so easy to manipulate.'' 
Later `Aunt Gari' was encamped at Dantzler's small cottage. Buch was back at base  not suspecting for a moment how well he had been handled. 
Carefully locking the door, Dantzler collapsed into a chair, emotionally exhausted. 
Gari quickly found his cache of liquor and poured a drink. 
``Jesus Christ,'' he exhaled. ``I was told to expect a contact, but I never expected it in  the middle of the commander's offce.'' 
`That's why you're an amateur,`` Gari said, as she lounged on the couch. ''People who  make bold, brazen, moves are rarely suspect. Makes sense, doesn't it?'' 
``I wasn't expecting a woman either.'' 
``But we make the best spies,'' she laughed,`` being sneaky is in our nature. You'll only  have me for two maybe three weeks at the tops. I have another project cooking in Berlin.'' 
She sat up suddenly and her tone became business­like, ``Do you have a hiding place  for equipment?'' 
``Not really,'' Eric replied. 
``We'll make one,'' she snapped back. ``I have brought some very sophisticated camera  equipment you must learn to use.'' 
She began to pace back and forth, shooting questions and planning strategy like a  general. 
``Are there any safes?'' 
``One in the offce, Shultz has access to it.'' 
``What about his house?'' 

``I've never been in his house.'' 
``Does he have any perversions, or faults we can exploit?'' 
``None I know of.'' 
``Is there anyone else who would know about the I914 thing?'' 
``No.'' 
``What about the daughter?'' 
``Just a kid.'' 
Eric sighed heavily, ``Could we continue this tomorrow? I feel as if I've been beaten.'' 
Gari moved behind his chair, put her drink down and began massaging his neck. Her  hands were quite talented and Eric could feel himself relax. She bent over placing her lips  so close to his ear he could hear her breath. ``I forgot,'' she murmured. ``It's been a pretty  stressful day for you. I know just the thing for reliving stress.'' Her tongue lightly caressed  his ear, ``Just let Auntie Gari take care of you.'' 
Gari purposely avoided Buch for the next few days. She called this, ``Letting him run  with the line, until I reel him in.'' Eric had to admit she was damn good at her job. By the  end of the week, she knew his real name, his birthplace, why he'd got this mission and even  the name of the first woman to whom he had made love. He had learned nothing of her,  nothing at all. It wasn't that she ever probed or questioned, she manipulated. Once when  they were alone, he revealed a personal secret to her. When he realized what he had done  he asked: ``How do you do that?'' 
``It's a gift,'' she replied. ``You can't teach it. It has to do with creative listening.'' 
During the day she would walk around the village and talk to the townsfolk. No one  ever knew they were being interrogated. Eric was amazed. After three days Gari knew more  about Buch's personal life than Eric had learned in three years. She told him the story of 
Buch's sister Hanna, (Eric didn't know he had a sister). How his mother and wife died. The  clash with his father. His relationship with the Kohlers and even with a prostitute named 
Mariah Periot. 
Each evening she would instruct him in the craft of spying. He had never used the  skills he learned before the assignment and most of what he could remember was out of date. 
She showed him how to pick a lock, crack a combination, code and decode messages and how  to make various explosives and noxious gases out of common household products. She was  an incredible technician who could strip and reassemble a gun faster than most armorers  and use a camera like a professional. 
``Here,'' she said one night, handing him a small camera case, ``guard this with your  life. If it looks like it might be captured, destroy it.'' 
He opened the case only to find a Brownie box camera, 2 rolls of unexposed film, a  flashlight and a couple of batteries. As the total value of the items, including the case, came  to a little over two dollars, American, he was puzzled. 
She saw his expression and laughed. ``OK, watch and learn.'' 

She took the camera, film, flashlight and batteries from the case and laid them on a  table. 
``First, the camera,'' she held the little black box in one hand. ``The Kodak Brownie  retails for under a dollar, and is common in America and Europe. You'll notice the trademark  of a Swiss manufacturer licensed by Kodak. This particular camera cost over a thousand  dollars and is designed to take photographs in low light.'' She put a fingernail under each of  the corner brackets at the front of the camera and pulled out a thin telescoping rod about  two feet long that she spread until they snapped in place. 
``This has a set focal length. Place the camera on a flat surface over the document and  it's in focus. Don't try to hold it. Press the shutter and stand back. The camera snaps a  picture every three seconds which should give you time to switch documents. The special  high­speed film is advanced automatically and shoots about 100 frames. It's clockwork, so  you be sure you wind it.'' 
Next she removed the ordinary­looking flashlight. She turned it on and held it about  two feet above the table. ``Specially built for a circle of light two feet from the lens with  minimum reflection. Just enough to create flawless pictures.'' She placed the flashlight along  the side of the camera held in place by a hidden magnet. 
``There,'' she smiled, ``so simple even you can do it.'' 
He practiced setting up, using and reloading the camera for the rest of the evening,  hoping to hell he would never have to use it. 
Eric was still a little confused about her attitude to sex. From the first it was quite  obvious she was in charge and used him much in the same way he might use a prostitute,  for pleasure alone. There was no emotion. He certainly didn't love her, but damn, she could  make him feel good. 
Captain Otto von Buch arrived in his dress uniform feeling like a schoolboy on his first  date, to pick up Gari for their weekend in Cologne. Eric was amused to see Buch in the 
Styer staff car. When it was brought out to transport VIPs it was always driven by Shultz. 
Buch preferred his little Opel, but for a trip to Cologne with two women, it was too small. 
Carrying her carpetbag, Gari gave Dantzler a peck on the cheek. ``Figure out how to  get into that safe,'' she whispered, then rushed to where Buch gallantly held the door for  her. 
Eric gave the departing car a final wave. ``The spy business is starting to get weird,''  he thought with a shake of his head. 
The Styer was equipped with button­up windows and a heater, but it still got bitterly  cold inside the car. Gari wasted no time in spreading a blanket over her and Buch's laps. 
``There,'' she murmured, snuggling close to him, ``now we will be warm.'' 
As the smell of her perfume and the warmth of her body swept over him, Buch became  warm indeed. It was late by the time Buch pulled into the drive at his estate. Sounding the  horn repeatedly so Herr Kohler didn't come rushing out with his gun. The family did not  expect him to be accompanied by a beautiful woman. Fraulien Kohler insisted she cook a 
late supper. Gari's bubbling personality quickly won over the Kohler's and within minutes  they were old friends but Sherry was much more reserved. Adolescent jealousy over a rival  for her father's affection was painfully obvious. Gari skillfully praised her maturity and drew  her into the conversation, so that before the end of an hour, they chatted like schoolgirls. 
Only Hanna remained aloof, not affected by the woman's magnetism. Gari entertained the  family well into the night with her tales of famous people and royalty. 
When Gari and Buch left Elmsdorf, Dantzler sat before the fire and thought about the  offce safe. Other than breaking into the offce and examining its contents, there seemed no  other alternative. He didn't want to risk such a procedure in the middle of a dark night. Gari  had told him it was easier to achieve his goals through subterfuge, and a lot less dangerous. 
He racked his brain for about an hour then gave up and made himself some supper. After  frying up a dish of sausage and beans, he grabbed a Maybach technical manual on the new  engines and began reading it while he ate when he got an idea. 
Going to a cabinet in the bathroom he pulled out a bar of soap and began to whittle  it with his penknife into a series of raised block letters. He blacked the letters with shoe  polish and pressed the soap to a piece of paper. He cursed when he realized the word was  backwards. He got another bar of soap and got it right the second time a perfect print of  the word `CONFIDENTIAL'. Blackening the soap a second time he pressed it on the front  page of the technical manual and then repeated this for the others. When he was finished  he had a stack of `Confidential' documents. 
The next morning Dantzler drove to the base and told the duty offcer he had to see 
Shultz on urgent business. It was over an hour later he was confronted by a hung­over and  bleary eyed Shultz. 
``What's so important you have to drag me from a warm bed and a hot woman on my  day off,'' he snarled. 
``Damn, I am sorry,'' Dantzler made his voice as sweet as honey. ``These documents  came in the mail yesterday. As you can see, they're classified and should be locked up.'' 
Shultz looked at the documents and nodded, ``Bunch of crap, I'll tell you,'' he muttered,  as they walked into the offce. 
Dantzler apologized: ``With that new security chief, well you know how it is?'' 
Shultz definitely did know how it was. Goldberg had been trouble ever since he arrived. 
He went to his desk and opened the center drawer. Then he walked over to the safe, bent  over and began to twirl the dial. He pulled the handle and the safe swung open. Dantzler  gave him the manuals and Shultz placed them in the safe and slammed the door shut. 
``Are you going to be available tomorrow?'' Dantzler asked innocently. ``Mohne and I  may start these modifications a day early.'' 
``Tomorrow?'' Shultz was shocked. ``Sunday? I planned to be --- occupied in the  morning.'' 
``Sorry, what can I do?'' Dantzler shrugged. 
Shultz rubbed his chin. ``Look,'' he said, ``I know where there is a file cabinet with a 
lock. It can go in one of the hangers. That will fill all the requirements, but I can't get it  until Monday.'' 
``I'll talk to Mohne and see if we can't start that modification on Monday,'' Dantzler  said with a smile. 
``Thanks,'' Shultz said, ``Thanks a lot.'' 
The great expedition to Cologne began. Although the Kohlers and Hanna were invited,  all declined. Sherry was bubbling with excitement. Hans had the Styer cranked up and warm  by the time Gari and the Buch's were ready to leave. Alone in the front like a chauffeur, 
Buch listened to the two women prattling in the back seat. He felt more content than he  had in years. 
Arriving in Cologne, they checked into a fashionable hotel. The city was one of the  oldest cities in Germany dating back to Roman times and known for its perfume factories,  as well as its steel mills. Old world charm and modern functionality lived side by side. 
Gari knew the city like a native and knew where to find the best bargains, often down  narrow alleys where Buch never suspected there were any shops at all. His companions flut­  tered from shop to shop like hummingbirds while Buch followed obediently behind, making  complimentary comments and carrying boxes. He felt a pang deep inside as he thought  fleetingly about his wife. Hanna had been a good mother to Sherry, but not a good com­  panion --- the difference between their ages and personalities was just too much. 
Gari knew the perfect restaurant with French cuisine and an adequate wine cellar  despite the war. She was greeted by the headwaiter by her nickname, ushered to the best  table and given the perfect meal. 
They were finishing their coffee when Gari placed her hand on his. ``And now, dear 
Otto,'' she said solemnly, ``you must leave us.'' 
``You might say, dear Otto,'' she said gravely, ``we must enter our own `no man's land'.'' 
Throwing his hands in the air Buch said, ``I give up. I am outnumbered. I`ll head back  to the hotel.'' 
``You will do no such thing,'' Gari scolded. Reaching into her purse she removed a  small piece of paper and a pencil. ``I want you to go here and relax,'' she said, scribbling on  the paper and handing it to him. 
He carried the parcels back to the hotel and ordered a carriage. The driver laughed. 
``Good choice, sir,'' he said with a grin. The carriage rode through the streets until it turned  down an alley and stopped in front of a small dusty building with the sign 'Omar's Turkish 
Spa'. Buch almost told the driver to turn around, but then how could he face Gari? 
Inside the dimly lit, sweet smelling hallway, Buch approached the counter and a tall,  turbaned Arab, Omar, by the look of him. 
``Welcome, sir,'' Omar said bowing, ``this is the first time you visit my establishment?'' 
Buch nodded. 
``We have only two rules, no loud or violent behavior, and let us do everything for  you,'' he said, handing Buch a small basket. ``For your valuables.'' 

Buch reluctantly placed his billfold, watch and jewelry in the basket and then was  given two large towels and directed through a curtained arch. 
``Please let me help you, sir,'' came a small voice from behind him. 
Startled, he turned to face a dark­skinned girl, not much older than his daughter,  dressed in silky pantaloons and a top which covered the breasts but little else. As she  started to undress him, he panicked. The girl saw this. ``Please, sir, I am here to serve. You  need not do anything you do not wish. Relax.'' 
He quickly wrapped himself in one of the towels. Then she led him to a steam room. 
Clouds of vapor engulfed him as he made his way to the lower of two tiled benches tiered  into the wall, aware of other figures sitting in the mist. Two men were talking quietly across  from him as another reclined on the bench opposite his. On the upper tier to his left sat a  man with his towel draped over his head. 
As the warm moist air began to embrace him, his eyes became heavy. Sweat flowed  copiously, dripping off his nose and fingers. The tension drained from his pores. 
``Are you on leave?'' The voice came from the man next to him. 
Buch had to shake his head to bring himself back to reality. ``Yes,'' he said, ``I am.'' 
``How are things at the front?'' The voice came back. 
``I'm with the Navy,'' Buch replied as an answer. 
``Oh,'' was all the man uttered. 
After a time the voice was heard again. ``Do you think the war will be over soon?'' 
``Yes,'' Buch replied with conviction. ``It will not last out the year.'' 
``That's good to hear,'' the man said softly. ``I have a son at the front.'' 
When he's had enough of the heat and steam, Buch wrapped the towel around his  waist, rose and left the room. The girl waiting was for him in the locker room. ``This  way sir,'' she said, and led him down a dimly lit hall. Buch was relaxed and curious. She  motioned him into a room with a long padded table and a steaming tub of perfumed water  and bubbles, and gestured to him to get in, which he did quickly. The hot suds were almost  painful at first, but then, as in the steam bath, he felt himself relax more and more. 
``What will you drink, sir?'' 
``Brandy,'' he replied. 
He sat back in the tub, sipping the liqueur and smoking a cigar. ``Damn that Gari,''  he thought. ``She knew exactly what I needed.'' 
When he had finished the drink and the cigar, the girl came forward to bathe him. 
The last person to do this was his mother when he was a baby, which might have something  to do with the feeling of warmth and contentment. She made him step out of the tub while  she toweled him dry. He was either no longer ashamed of his nakedness, or he was too  relaxed to care. She then had him lay face down on the table and started to massage. As  her fingers danced over his flesh any remaining tension vanished. If Omar came rushing in  with a scimitar, he was powerless to defend himself. The girl told him to roll over. 

After she kneaded the muscles of his arms, legs and face, he knew the stiffness had fled  from all his joints --- save one. The towel covering his waist looked like a circus tent. 
``Would you like me to take care of that?'' she asked softly. 
It was all he could do to nod. 
As the girl removed the towel and bent over him, he was thinking of Gari: ``I should  marry that woman.'' 
Omar was busy in the front room. He had carefully removed everything from Buch's  billfold and had photographed it and was now making wax impressions of all the keys he  carried. At the locksmith's next door, he would have copies made and sent with the film  by messenger to an address just outside town. The lady who lived at that address would  travel to the city and sup at a restaurant where she would hand the keys and film, now in a  small box, to the bathroom attendant. Later Gari Klopsic would insist on stopping at the  restaurant after the theater for coffee. She would have to powder her nose. 
Buch met his daughter in the hotel lobby. Sherry was ecstatic as she rushed to him  and hugged him in a grip he thought would break his ribs. ``Papa,'' she said breathlessly, 
``Gari says she can arrange it so we can go to the Krupp's Ball.'' 
``I'm sure she can,'' he chuckled. 
Gari glided into the lobby and announced, ``It's all set. Come, we must hurry and  dress for dinner. I have tickets for the opera.'' She shrugged, ``Wagner, how depressing.'' 
Sherry bounded up the stairs toward their rooms, allowing the two older folks to lag  behind. ``Did you enjoy yourself?'' Gari whispered to Buch. 
``Yes,'' he said softly, knowing the secret shared brought them closer. ``I found it quite  relaxing.'' 
``I know,'' she said simply. ``I go there myself sometimes.'' 
Buch couldn't tell if she was kidding or not. 
Sherry had reached the landing and was rushing down the hall. Gari stopped and  looked at Buch. ``Tonight,'' she said sexily, ``don't lock your door.'' 
Although the chance of being caught was practically nil, Dantzler was still nervous as  he drove onto the base. He was glad it was cold as his nervous shaking could be mistaken  for shivering. With any luck he would get what Boyer wanted right now, give it to Gari and  kiss the whole thing good­bye. He wanted to go back to nice, quiet, --- and safe, industrial  espionage. 
He quickly picked the lock on the offce door, opened it and locked the door behind  him. He walked over to Shultz's desk and picked the lock on the center drawer. It was even  easier than the door. As he suspected, the safe combination was written in ink on the bare  wood at the bottom of the drawer. It took three tries to get the safe open. But soon he was  examining the contents for anything pertaining to `Operation Volant'. 
The safe held pay records, personnel records, requisitions, letters, memos, dispatches  and operational orders. Everything was important, but there wasn't anything that was really  classified. ``Damn,'' he muttered. 

He put everything back the way he found it and placed his manuals on top. 
``Buch must keep classified stuff somewhere else,'' he thought, scared enough to forget  the whole thing and go home, but angry enough to continue. Taking a lock pick from a  pocket in the camera bag, he carefully used it to open the door to Buch's inner offce, and  began to look for a hidden safe. He was glad the curtains were drawn so he could move  about unseen. He checked behind pictures and for fake panels in the wall and he rolled up  what he could of the carpet to search for trap doors. The desk and filing cabinet had no  locks, but he checked them anyway. He removed some of the books from the bookcase, but  not finding anything, put them back. Before leaving he again scrutinized the room in case  there was anyplace he missed. He looked again at the drawn curtains, but only to insure  they were closed. With a shake of his head, he shut the door, making a draft that blew the  curtains apart, exposing the safe below the window. Dantzler did not see it. 
The weekend had been unforgettable for Buch. The three sat quietly in the Styer  as Buch drove back to Elmsdorf. This time Gari was in the passenger seat, while Sherry  reclined by herself in the back. 
``Pretty quiet back there,'' Buch called out. 
``I'm still exhausted,'' Sherry said stifling a yawn. ``Although I don't know why. I was  out the moment my head hit the pillow and slept like a baby.'' 
Buch and Gari shot each other a sidelong glance. 
``That was a test,'' Sherry thought smiling. ``They think I'm a silly, naive little girl.'' 
She had been so excited by the time she got back to her room she had a hard time sleeping  and the hotel's walls weren't all that thick. She knew pretty much what was happening in the  next room, it didn't upset her; she was happy for her father, realizing she was of marriageable  age and would someday have to leave him. She knew that even with the Kohlers, Hanna  and herself, there was something missing in his life. She didn't know if Gari would be the  one to fill the void, but she now knew her father was at least willing to try. 
``With the ball only a week away I just don't know how I'll ever get ready,'' Sherry  remarked casually. 
``I'm sure Hanna will help,'' Buch said. 
``If Gari was to stay at our place, she could help,'' she said, as if the thought had just  struck her. ``After all, you and Eric will be at the base.'' 
``That would be fun,'' Gari jumped in. ``If you'll have me. Otherwise, I'll just sit  around Eric's and twiddle my thumbs.'' 
``Of course.'' The ladies were manipulating him again. Buch thought it was kind of  fun. 
It was late afternoon before the Styer pulled up outside Dantzler's house. 
``How did it go?'' Eric asked, as Gari came in the door. 
``Good and bad,'' she sighed. ``He's a marvelous man, but tight lipped as hell. He  doesn't like to talk about his job, or the war and thinks he shouldn't bother women with  such things. I got very little out of him.'' 

Eric told her of failure with the offce safe. 
``Are you sure you looked everywhere?'' she insisted. 
``Everywhere,'' he said. ``I'm sorry.'' 
``Well, we know at least where not to look,'' she said, ``and by the way you're driving  me out to the Buch house tomorrow.'' 
She explained the arrangement with Sherry. 
``I'll snoop around and see what I can find.'' She added. 

The Darhowers 
There is another face to war. While great battles are fought, strategies decided and people  die, the drab, boring real existence of life goes on. Builders build, shopkeepers keep shop,  farmers farm and fishermen fish. All of these are affected by war, but they still must be  done. 
On the coast of Europe, such was the case. Fishing fleets still left ports in search  of fish. There was no way the governments could stop them, nor would they want to, as  food was a vital resource. German, Dutch, Belgian, French and British fishermen shared the 
English channel and North Sea. Thousands of men and hundreds of boats from villages up  and down the channel left every day to fish in the ageless sea they had always fished. 
As in every war, a clandestine economic system bypassing normal peacetime channels  is formed. If someone in France needed a vital part from a German manufacturer and that  manufacturer wanted to impress his guests with French wine, arrangements could be made. 
Offcially, all countries involved in the war abhorred the ancient art of smuggling and  had measures to prevent it. Unoffcially, they all reaped benefits from the system. 
So it was that on one bright sunny afternoon, a fishing boat from England met a fishing  boat from Holland on the North Sea. Both captains had posted lookouts to warn against  patrol boats while they exchanged a number of wooden boxes. As there was a slight trade  deficit, the Dutch captain counted out a number of pound notes, which he handed to his 
British counterpart. Ropes were untied, farewells shouted, and the two boats slowly turned  and headed back for their homelands. The boxes were carefully placed below decks and the  captain made sure one with holes in the lid from which emanated a soft cooing sound, was  placed on top. This was a special box, one for which he was well paid to take to Holland. 
It was a big day for the Darhowers. For the past week various citizens had visited  bearing shopping lists. A substantial sum of money now rested in a heavy steel box chained  under the seat of their truck. They were about to set out for Holland to play their part in  the clandestine economic system, otherwise known as the `black market'. Their shopping  lists asked for food, medicine, cloth and other items no longer available in Germany. 
An hour before dawn they got the old Alder cranked up. Built in 1909, it had seen  several owners before the Darhowers. It no longer had a hood, fenders, or cab, just an  engine, wooden bench seats and a large wooden platform suspended above four steel wheels  with solid rubber tires. It wheezed and clanked as it tried to shake the fillings out of its  passengers' teeth at a blistering twelve miles­an­hour. But it was very reliable and so beat up  there was no risk of it being commandeered by the Army for use at the front. The Darhowers  occupied the bench seat, while Olaf, the blacksmith, literally rode shotgun in the truck bed. 
A shotgun was cradled in his arms to protect the money on the outbound trip and the goods 
coming back. No one waved to them as they left town, as few were up and about at that  hour, but those that heard the chug and clank began to feel like children expecting Father 
Christmas. 
They were heading for a small village just north of Heerlan, in Holland, about five hours  away. It would be dusk by the time they loaded and returned. There were no checkpoints  or border guards along this road. Soon after crossing the border the Alder finally pulled off  the road and into a warehouse that serviced a lumberyard. Only then did the three men get  down from the truck and stretch their legs. Olaf stayed near the truck, while the Darhowers  went into a small, well­heated offce in a corner of the building. There, they received a warm  greeting and a cold beer from George Van Hallen, a huge bald man with a beard down to his  substantial belly. While workmen loaded the truck, the Darhowers looked over manifests and  lists. Some things were not available, or the price had radically changed. The Darhowers  negotiated, money was exchanged, and the list for next month's order was given to Van 
Hallen. Van Hallen signaled and one of his workmen brought the box with the holes in the  lid. The Darhowers placed it securely under the seat. The truck was now piled high with  boxes and barrels and covered with a canvas tarpaulin. 
Olaf climbed on top and made himself a sort of nest, as the Darhowers started up the  truck and began the trip back to Elmsdorf. When they reached it, ears perked up all over  the village. Louis opened the garage door, so Reinhold could park inside. Louis took the  box from under the seat and carried it upstairs, through the trap door and into the loft. 
Downstairs, the first people were arriving for their goods, an activity that would continue  well into the night. Louis carefully removed the lid to the box. Inside were fifteen cardboard  cylinders and in each, a homing pigeon. He carefully removed the birds and placed them  into a cage with water and food. They were sickly, but with a little time they would be  robust and fit again, except for the three that died in transport. 
The village of Elmsdorf now had the staples of life for another month and the Darhower  brothers had a month's supply of homing pigeons for their espionage. 
As the Darhowers were driving back to Elmsdorf, Gari was packing the Bearcat for her  stay at the Buch estate. Eric was busy trying to figure how to somehow tie the bags and  suitcases to a car designed to carry two people and little else. He drove at what was for him  a very leisurely pace in case a piece of luggage came undone and the German countryside  was decorated with Gari's unmentionables. 
``I could kiss her,'' Gari said. ``I couldn't have hoped for such an opportunity. To stay  at the house for a week. If I had raised it, her father would never have gone for it.'' 
Although it was still cold, Spring was starting to make advances like a shy lover. Buds  were beginning to appear on trees, and yellow green was sprouting out of the ground. 
``This girl may be very valuable to us,'' Gari blurted out suddenly. ``You should seduce  her.'' 
``What!'' Eric choked. ``She's a child. Just a kid. You're crazy.'' 
``She's almost seventeen, a marriageable age, and you, dear Eric, are a very eligible  bachelor,'' Gari said, as she brushed a strand of hair from an eye. ``And she has you men 
completely fooled. She is neither as naive, nor as innocent as you believe. She rather reminds  me of myself at her age, which wasn't all that long ago,'' she added quickly. 
``I don't think I could get involved with her,'' Dantzler said frowning. 
``Look mutton­head,'' Gari said angrily. ``You don't have to bed her, just court her. If 
I can't get into Buch's private papers, you might have to. And if you have to, you'll need a  key and she's the key.'' 
As the Bearcat pulled up to the Buch's house, the Kohlers ran out to greet Gari and  help Eric unload. Sherry went to the window of her room on the second floor and looked  down. Her first instinct was to race downstairs, but her attention focused on Eric. Until  now, she never thought of him romantically. She had a number of school girl crushes and  even had a couple of bouts of heavy petting with some local boys, but she never allowed  them to go too far and she never took any of it seriously. Many of the girls she had grown up  with had married already and many of them were mothers. A few, too many, passionately  and patriotically married boys before they marched to the front, only to never see them  again. She was smarter. The man she married would be handsome, intelligent, kind and  have a future. . . . a man like Eric Dantzler. 
It didn't cross her mind that Gari had often referred to her wonderful nephew over the  weekend and might have influenced her thinking. Her weekend in Cologne had irrevocably  changed the way she would look at life. Gari had spoken to her and treated her, not as a  child, but as a young woman. Sherry would no longer let anyone to treat her any other way. 
She heard a soft knock on her door. ``Your friend is here,'' Hanna announced through  the door. 
``Thank you,'' Sherry called. ``I'm coming.'' Poor Hanna was the only one who rec­  ognized the change that overwhelmed her niece. Sherry loved Hanna and knew that inside  dwelled a woman of deep feeling and sympathy. She wasn't sure how Hanna felt about her  emerging womanhood. But hoped she would be pleased. 
Sherry ran down the stairs and embraced Gari as she came through the door. As she  looked over her shoulder through the open door, she could see Eric driving away in his little  yellow car. 

Krupps Ball 
Another week and Sydney Black was again in the back seat of a cab weaving its way down  the dark back alleys of Berlin. He had come to accept these weekly trysts with Gurta Krouse,  but now it was time to move the relationship to another plane. 
He opened the door at the top of the stairs and saw Krause's eyes light up in joy. ``My  love,'' he murmured, as he wrapped his arms around Sydney. The black man roughly pushed  him back onto the bed, and tossed a brown envelope next to him. Krause's confusion only  increased when Sydney spoke to him in perfect German, ``We need to talk, Captain Krause.'' 
Sydney pointed to the envelope. Even before he opened it, Krause knew what was inside. 
The pictures were sharp and the identities of those in them easily discernible. He wanted to  cry, or scream. 
``What do you want?'' he asked, meekly. 
``Triple what you normally pay,'' Sydney snarled, ``and I don't want to see you at La 
Baroness ever again, understand?'' 
Krause nodded. 
``We'll continue to meet here every week,'' Sydney snapped again. 
Again Krause nodded. 
Sydney started to undo his belt. ``Now get over here on your knees,'' he commanded, 
``and do what you do best.'' 
Krause crawled to Sydney in total humiliation. As he engulfed the black man's man­  hood in his mouth, he gazed up at him; Sydney towered over him, totally in command. 
``God,'' Krause thought in ecstasy,`` this is fabulous.'' 
Sydney smiled to himself. He had read his victim perfectly. 
The Krupp's ball was scheduled for March 16, and the week before was a flurry of  activity at the Buch household. Gari, Hanna and Frau Kohler fussed over Sherry's gown,  which they were making. Hanna had even come to a friendly understanding with Gari. Hans 
Kohler and Otto Buch tended to stay out of the ladies' way except when Hanna insisted 
Buch try on a dress uniform that he had not worn for some years. ``You've gained a little  weight. '' Buch reddened at that. 
He had received a dispatch instructing him to have his squadron combat ready by the  following week. As they had few missions the previous month, his squadron was already in  good shape. 
When Sherry's gown was complete she showed it to her father. It was stunning. 
Bright red silk clung tightly to her body and flowed to the floor; white lace caressed her 
wrists and bosom, which Buch had to admit was fuller than he had noticed. As she posed  and pirouetted, Buch felt a sudden loss, his little girl was gone forever and in her place was  this beautiful young woman. 
Eric had no formal attire. He simply never needed that type of clothing and had to  take a day off and drive the 30 kilometers into Cologne to shop for a suit. The prospect of  rubbing elbows with the rich and famous did not appeal to him. Deep down, after all, he  was still the shy Amish kid from Pennsylvania. He felt he had to go to give credence to the  mythical relationship between Gari and himself. 
Eric bought a very conservative tuxedo that wouldn't elicit any negative comment, and  hoped he would blend with the wallpaper. 
Gari had planned the weekend meticulously. The four would meet at the Buch Estate  then motor into Cologne and catch a train. Essen was only 75 kilometers away, but road  conditions would make the trip arduous by car. Besides, it was not chic to show up for an  event of this nature in a motorcar. The ball began at six p.m., which meant they would  arrive fashionably around seven. Overnight bags were in order, as they were likely to be  invited to spend the night. After breakfast, they would say their good­byes, return to the  hotel, pack and be on the afternoon train. Buch thought it was an extravagance to pay for  two nights if Gari thought they would only be staying one. ``Dear Otto,'' she explained, 
``only certain special people are invited to stay in the Krupp's guest rooms. One must be  prepared in case you have fallen from grace.'' 
The day of the ball had arrived. Sherry was finding it hard to contain her excitement. 
She had already planned to sit next to Eric for the entire trip and was eager to try her  new­born feminine wiles. 
``My dear,'' Gari scolded Sherry gently, ``you must learn to be at ease and compose  yourself before a ball. For a woman, an event like this is like going into combat. Jealousy,  intrigue and conspiracy will surround us and you may have to defend yourself. You will need  your wits about you.'' 
``Perhaps I shall recruit a shinning knight to defend me,'' Sherry said coyly. 
``Nonsense,'' Gari said with a laugh, ``the men will strut about like peacocks totally  oblivious to the skirmishes we ladies are involved in.'' 
When Buch arrived home he threw a small wrench in the works. Dantzler was needed  to solve a vital engine problem and would work far into the night and would meet them in 
Essen the following day. 
Mohne had indeed found a problem while doing an engine run up on L 39 and had  mentioned it to Dantzler. It was not anything major, nor anything that required his exper­  tise, but Eric looked on it as a golden opportunity to avoid traveling to Essen and spending  the day with the Buch's, especially Sherry. 
``Oh well,'' Gari said, sensing Sherry's disappointment, ``will see him tomorrow.'' 
Inside she was seething, guessing what he had done and why. ``I could kill the son of  a bitch,'' she fumed silently. 

At the last minute Hanna asked if it would be possible for her to tag along, not to the  ball naturally, but just as far as Essen. Buch, surprised, didn't know what to say, but as  usual Gari said the right thing. ``But, of course, you may,'' she said sweetly. ``Eric won't be  needing his room. It will be fine, won't it, Otto?'' 
Gari understood. The ball would be the most important event in Sherry's young life,  her premiere performance. It was only right the woman who was almost her mother, wished  to share this moment. 
The next day seemed to Sherry to be the longest in history. Time slowed to a crawl. 
Eric had not yet arrived. ``I'm sure he'll make it,'' Gari reassured her. ``If he doesn't,'' she  thought to herself, ``I'll rip his damn head off!'' 
Eric had put off leaving until the last possible minute. The train, normally effcient  and on time, pulled into the station late, due to the fact it had been shuffed onto sidings  numerous times to let southbound troop trains pass. He reached the hotel in Essen around  six, only to find a very upset Hanna, who informed him the others had left. He borrowed  her room to change, and by seven, he too was on his way to the ball. 
Sherry gazed out the window of the hired carriage as it took its place in line in the  approach to the Krupp mansion. She couldn't believe the opulence. Friedrich Krupp started  the family business a hundred years earlier and had built a dynasty on the manufacture of  cannons. The Krupps were arguably the richest family in all Germany, apart from the Kaiser. 
The Krupp empire now embraced steel works, coal and iron mines, shipyards, engine shops,  and a fleet of steamships. Its present head was Gustav Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, a 
Prussian diplomat who assumed the family name after marrying Bertha Krupp, the heiress  to the Krupp millions. Gustav was thought by some to be a gold digger who had married  for the money. If this was so, he played his role well. He was a good husband to Bertha and  an asset to the company. 
Uniformed servants opened the doors and helped the passengers alight from their car­  riages. Most had come this way, although many were in elaborate private coaches with their  own liveried attendants and a few arrived by motor car. Sherry felt as if she was in a fairy  tale dream. Gari kept waving to people she knew. ``That's Count so­and­so and Baroness  such­and­such.'' As her father paused on the step of the coach and stood upright, he looked  so handsome, dignified and self­assured, Sherry thought her heart would burst with pride. 
Gari saw the look on her face and whispered, ``He is quite a man, your father.'' 
``I am the daughter of Zeppelin Captain, Otto von Buch,'' Sherry thought to herself. 
Looking around at these important people she suddenly felt inferior to none. 
She was soon face­to­face with Gustav Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, his eleven­  year­old son Alfred, and his wife Bertha, the most influential family in all Germany. Sherry  expected the Krupps to be snobbish and larger than life, but they reminded her of the 
Kohlers. Gustav was starting to develop a paunch. Bertha looked more like your typical  house Frau. 
``Gari,'' Gustav exclaimed as she kissed him on the cheek. Bertha threw her arms  around her like a long­lost sister. ``It's so good to see you.'' 

``This must be the brave zeppelin captain you spoke of,'' Gustav said shaking Buch's  hand. ``I knew Count Zeppelin personally. A great man.'' 
Gustav then turned his attention to Sherry. ``And who is this goddess you have brought  among us?'' He said, as he gallantly kissed her hand. 
``My daughter,'' Buch said, ``Sherry.'' 
Sherry could feel the rush in her cheeks. She was literally speechless. 
``You better keep an eye on the old lecher,'' Gari said to Bertha, with a laugh. 
``Maybe he should keep an eye on me,'' Bertha said, leering at Buch. 
Sherry was amazed, the entire line of VIPs behind them had to wait while Gari traded  jokes with their hosts. 
``You remember Alfred,'' Bertha said, pulling forward her son who was a little shy until  he saw Buch. ``You fly a zeppelin?'' he asked. Buch nodded. ``Can I fly in a zeppelin?'' the  boy asked breathlessly. 
``After the war, everybody can fly in a zeppelin,'' Buch answered with a wink. 
As the group moved away, Gari called back, ``If a rather disheveled young man shows  up named Eric Dantzler, he belongs to me.'' 
The ball room seemed as big as one of the zeppelin sheds. Huge columns held up  the ornate ceiling from which hung great crystal chandeliers. On the walls were murals of 
Greek and Roman mythology framed with velvet curtains as big as a ship's sails. In each  corner of the enormous room was a fountain where water danced in the air. At the far  end, a stage upon which ballerinas danced to the music of an orchestra. Surrounded by  an archipelago of tables was a dance floor, which could easily accommodate the numerous  guests. A kaleidoscope of color swirled around them. The men tended to dress in black  tuxedos, but at least half the males were military and their dress uniforms often outshone  the ladies in color. Red, green and blue jackets trimmed in gold braid and buttons sporting  row upon row of medals could be seen everywhere. Gari was pleased to see the effect Sherry  was having on the men. Faces followed her, mustaches were stroked, stomachs were sucked  in, and conversations paused. 
As the orchestra began a waltz, couples flowed on the dance floor and began whirling  around like multicolored leaves in the wind. At least six young men headed in Sherry's  direction racing to be the first to ask her to dance. This competition was won by a charming  captain of Cavalry. Sherry was on the dance floor before she even had a chance to sit down. 
Gari felt a small twinge of envy. Was it so long since she commanded such attention? 
Champaign was delivered to the tables and delicacies in a never­ending stream. Sherry  danced time after time and collapsed, near exhaustion after an hour. Gari suggested they  freshen up. As they passed a group of women, a matronly woman dressed in blue chiffon  called, ``Gari, please introduce me to your friend.'' 
``Countess Olga Kreitzer,'' Gari said with a smile, ``may I present Sherry von Buch.'' 
Gari did not like the Countess. They had been rivals for years. 

``We were admiring your gown,'' the countess said with her voice dripping honey. ``Is  it homemade?'' 
``Boom,'' thought Gari with her smile frozen on her lips, ``that was a broadside aimed  at poor Sherry.'' Gari could see the smiles on the faces of the countess's followers, but before  she could say anything, Sherry did a small pirouette showing off her perfect body. ``Yes, it  is,'' she said enthusiastically. ``I've always thought things one creates shows so much more  character than store­bought things.'' She brimmed with youthful innocence. 
The smiles became puzzled. Gari had to clench her teeth to avoid laughing. Not only  had the girl dodged the broadside, but managed to hit the old battlewagon with a torpedo. 
``How is it we've never seen you at other events?'' Countess Kreitzer asked, a touch of  a sneer in her voice. 
``My father is just too busy. He's fighting the war, you know.'' 
``Well,'' said the older woman deciding discretion might be best, ``perhaps we will see  more of you.'' 
``Perhaps,'' Sherry said cocking her head to the side as the Countess and her fleet sailed  away. 
Gari couldn't have been more proud had Sherry been her own daughter. She could  see the looks on some of the women who had overheard the exchange. ``This little cub has  claws,'' they said. 
``Old cow,'' Sherry whispered angrily. Gary smiled. 
Once back at the table Sherry was swept on to the dance floor again. Gari looked up  to see Bertha Krupp towing a tousled, embarrassed Eric Dantzler. 
``Gari, darling,'' Bertha shouted, ``you said if I found this fellow, he belonged to you. 
The guards were getting ready to feed him to the dogs.'' 
``Thank you,'' Gari said graciously. ``He probably tried to climb a mountain on the  way here. He's Swiss you know.'' 
Bertha laughed and pinched Eric's cheek. ``He is so cute and lovable, I should keep  him for myself,'' she said. Eric's face became even redder. Bertha and turned to Gari, ``You  will be staying for breakfast, of course?'' she asked Gari. 
``Of course, if you'll have us?'' 
As the hostess moved away, Eric said, ``You wouldn't believe the trouble I had getting  here.'' 
``No,'' Gari barked, ``I wouldn't.'' 
There were a few minutes of silence before Gari turned and said, ``Eric, could you  rescue dear Sherry from that pack of salivating dogs before they rape her in the middle of  the dance floor.'' 
Young Army and Naval offcers competing for Sherry's attention were like a swarm of  bees around a queen. Eric nodded and walked toward the group. He couldn't see Sherry 
clearly, just some glimpses of a red dress and dark hair. With copious apologies, he managed  to break through, cleared his throat, and called her name. 
When she turned to face him, for a second he thought he had the wrong person. Then  she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. ``Eric,'' she sang, ``you made  it after all.'' 
Then she turned to her admirers, ``I am sorry, but I promised my friend a dance.'' ``I  must thank you for saving me from those beasts,'' she said. Her voice had a timbre Eric had  never heard before. ``I swear,'' she went on, ``if I heard one more story about how they were  off to the front, I'd burst. They think it's my patriotic duty to fall on my back right there  and now.'' 
Eric's embarrassment system was operating full tilt. They collided with an elderly  general and his wife and after Eric struggled with more apologies, Sherry said, ``We better  sit down before we are declared a hazard.'' 
The lights went down and a cabaret show began. Eric couldn't keep his eyes off Sherry. 
How could she turn from a little girl into this vibrant woman overnight? 
When dancing began again, Buch took the opportunity to dance with his daughter. 
Gari suggested to Eric he accompany her to the verandah. Although it was cold, he was  grateful for the fresh air. He waited for her to scold him for being late. 
``The offensive will begin in the next week,'' she told him softly. 
``How do you know?'' 
``Your train was shuffed to a siding three or four times?'' she asked rhetorically. ``So  was ours.'' 
She motioned towards the ballroom, ``Did you notice the number of army offcers?'' 
Eric had to admit it did seem to be predominately a navy party. 
``Troop trains heading toward the front. Solders leave canceled,'' Gari continued. ``The  offensive will be soon.'' 
They started back to their table, ``Do you still think Sherry's a child?'' 
``No,'' he said sheepishly. 
After midnight the crowd started to slowly thin. Sherry had developed a giggle. Eric  had loosened up and was telling jokes. Captain Buch had developed a large, silly, grin and 
Gari an amused expression, all due to copious amounts of champagne. By two o'clock, the  orchestra was down to a few musicians playing some decadent American Jazz. Buch fell  asleep and was snoring. Eric was beginning to run low on anecdotes. Sherry was yawning  heavily and even Gari's eyes were getting heavy. Servants had the party on a special list and  directed them to their rooms. When they tried to put Buch to bed, he attempted to pull 
Gari in with him. ``Not tonight, my gallant Captain,'' she said laughing. 
Sherry and Eric were intoxicated in more ways than one. Eric gallantly opened the  door. There was an awkward moment of silence, both wondering what they should do next. 
Sherry considered inviting him in, but no, that would be too wicked. 

``It's been quite a day.'' 
``Yes,'' she replied, just as casually, ``it has been that.'' 
There was another pause. 
``See you for breakfast,'' he said awkwardly. 
She threw her arms around him and delivered a long passionate kiss. 
He was shocked not only by her boldness, but also by her passion. This was not a  little girl's kiss, but a woman's. He felt himself responding to this woman, but still aware of  the little girl. He pushed her away gently, running the back of his fingers up and down her  cheek. 
``I'll see you in the morning,'' he whispered. 
Alone in her room, she began to disrobe, carefully folding and hanging her clothes. 
She was preparing to put on her nightgown when she saw her naked body in the mirror. She  looked at herself as a woman, draping her long black hair across her shoulders and allowing  it to cascade over her breasts. 
``Yes, Eric,'' she said softly to herself. ``It's been quite a day.'' In the next room, Eric  lay on the bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Gari had suggested he seduce Sherry. But  now? Things were happening too fast. He was afraid things could get out of control. He  wasn't sure he was in control now. He rolled over, but sleep was a long time coming. 
It was eight in the morning when Eric heard a soft voice. ``Breakfast is being served,''  the voice repeated as it diminished down the hall. Eric slowly came to, aware an army of  trolls had set up mining operations in his head. There was a knock on the door and without  thinking Eric yelled, ``Come in.'' The booming sound of his voice amplified the pain in his  head. 
``Eric, how are you this morning?'' Greeted Buch's voice, as he entered the room. 
``Dying,'' came the reply. He suddenly bolted from the bed into the bathroom to pray  at the porcelain altar. When he came out, Buch handed him a cup of steaming liquid. ``I  had the steward bring you this.'' 
``Oh God,'' Eric groaned, ``I can't eat anything.'' 
``Drink,'' Buch commanded. 
Eric did as he was told. The hot liquid seemed to settle his stomach and quiet the  sounds in his head. ``Some secret cure?'' 
``Hardly, hot tomato juice and black pepper,'' Buch said. ``The ladies said they would  join us for breakfast in an half hour.'' 
Breakfast was served in the dining room, which was located adjacent to the ballroom. 
There was a large round table in the center that could seat up to twenty people. The large  table was the Krupp's, and it was considered to be a social honor to be seated here. It was  to this table the waiter directed Buch and Dantzler. They greeted the Krupps and Buch  took the seat next to eleven­year­old Alfred, which delighted the boy. 

A few minutes later they were joined by Gari and Sherry. Sherry instinctively knew  how you looked the morning after was as important as how you looked the night before, and  if red was the passionate color of night, then the sky blue she now wore reflected the coolness  of morning. The pair floated into the room, all eyes to following them as they took their  seats. 
Besides the Krupps, there was a retired general and his wife, a countess and a gun­  powder manufacturer, sitting at the table. 
Eric ordered eggs. ``Only two?'' Buch remarked, and then proceeded to tell the table  of Eric's legendary appetite. ``Oh, my,'' Bertha quipped, ``we can get you more.'' 
``No, please,'' Eric answered quickly, as the men at the table exchanged subtle smiles. 
``What's it like to fly in the sky?'' little Alfred Krupp asked Buch. 
``Oh, you will like it,'' Buch told him. ``The world looks like a toy village and the clouds  like balls of cotton candy. At night it looks like the stars from the sky cover the earth.'' 
``Oh Mama,'' the boy looked at his mother, ``I want to fly.'' 
``Maybe we can arrange it,'' Bertha told him. 
``Do you really think zeppelins have a future?'' Gustav asked. 
``Yes,'' Buch replied, ``it will be decades before airplanes will be able to match the  zeppelin in comfort and range. In fact, I'm betting my future on it.'' 
``When do you think Ludendorff will launch the offensive?'' The general asked. 
Buch thought for a moment. ``I'm sure it will be soon,'' he speculated. ``He'll want to  do it before the Americans arrive in force.'' 
``Americans! Bah,'' The gunpowder manufacturer interjected. ``A nation of ignorant  cowboys.'' 
``I assure you,'' the gunpowder manufacturer, continued, ``those stupid louts will run  like rabbits when faced with real soldiers.'' 
``Those stupid louts invented the telephone, telegraph, machine gun, airplane and  submarine. They have the largest transportation system in the world, and have managed  to tame an entire continent'' Eric blurted out. ``They are a lot like their bison. They mill  about until they decide to go in a direction, but when they do, don't stand in their way.'' 
``Eric went to school in America,'' Gari offered by way of explanation. 
``Still they can never achieve the engineering expertise of Germany.'' 
``You know,'' Buch jumped in, ``I was listening to a couple of engineers in 
Friedrichshafen --- a Swiss and a German. The German engineer told a joke. He said the 
Germans could manufacture the world's thinnest wire and the Swiss would drill a hole in  it, but the Americans would thread the hole and put a bolt in it simply because they don't  know it can't be done.'' 
``Speaking of science,'' Gustav Krupp said softly, ``keep this under your hats, although  the whole world will know of it soon. Krupp industries has just delivered six of the largest,  most sophisticated, artillery pieces ever built. It fires a shell over a hundred kilometers.'' 

There was a gasp from his audience. ``The shell is in the air for almost three minutes,''  he went on. ``It must be aimed to compensate for the rotation of the earth.'' 
``There you see,'' the gunpowder manufacturer said. ``How can the rest of the world  compete with that?'' 
Bertha Krupp beamed with pride at the achievements of her husband. 
A week later the great Krupp guns would be aimed at Paris. The guns were named as  they left the factory. Gustav proudly named the last one after his loving wife. Unfortunately  they tended to burn out the barrels and due to their great cost were not replaced. They did,  however, manage to cause millions of francs in damage and killed more than eight hundred  people. The Allies thought the damage was done by a single gun, which they called the 
`Paris gun', or more popularly, `Big Bertha'. 
The weekend had been a success. The little group was tired as they boarded the train. 
Sherry sat next to Eric. As the train made its way south. She snuggled into his shoulder  and fell asleep. Nestled against Buch, Gari looked over at Eric and Sherry. Everything had  gone better than she could have planned. 
Four days later, on March 21, the Western Front witnessed the greatest artillery barrage  laid down in the history of the world. The great Ludendorff offensive had begun. The 
Germans pounded the Allied line, which bent inward. Like a boxer in the final rounds of  a bout, the Allies staggered and reeled. The Germans continued to pound, and faced with  imminent defeat, the Allies did the one thing that they had fought against throughout the  war, appointed a supreme commander. General Foch rallied his reserves to plug holes in the  line. By April 1 the German's attack slowed from sheer exhaustion. The Allied line, bloody  and bent, did not break. 

Easter 
Buch had expected that during the great offensive, his squadron would be very busy indeed. 
But they only flew a few reconnaissance missions and a bombing run on Calais was planned,  only to be canceled due to weather. Buch saw it as a clear indication as to how low the  zeppelin force had fallen. It was obvious to him that the few missions they received were  the Army's way of tossing the Navy a few scraps. The men of the squadron saw this also,  and morale plummeted. 
Gari stayed at the estate and Buch began to spend each night there, leaving the base  around five each evening. He and Gari started to sneak into each other's room in the middle  of the night and soon everyone in the household knew about their clandestine liaisons. 
Mariah Periot attempted suicide by overdosing on store­bought aspirin. Some of the  other girls caught her and forced her to vomit most of the pills, so she did not die. No one  told Buch. 
Eric spent most of his spare time with Sherry. On the first Sunday of spring, they  climbed into the Bearcat and headed into the countryside for a picnic. Hanna was a little  worried about letting the two of them spend so much time unchaperoned. 
Some 300 kilometers to the south the largest forces ever created were locked in a death  struggle. Limbs were being torn asunder, blood soaked the earth, prayers were uttered in  vain and thousands of men would breathe no more. All of this was, to the young couple,  nonexistent. As the Bearcat motored through bright groves of trees, their only thoughts  were for each other. Sometimes, from the south, they would hear a faint sound, like distant  thunder. 
Over the years Eric had explored the area around Elmsdorf. The yellow car prowling  the country roads was a common sight. He knew of a certain meadow next to a creek that  would be the perfect place for a picnic. Sherry loved the wind in her hair, the growl of  the car's exhaust, the speed. She wore a canvas duster over a pink dress, her hair held in  place with a silk scarf. The Bearcat drove on to a covered wooden bridge and stopped. Eric  honked the horn to listen to the strange echo. ``Oh, let me do it,'' Sherry squealed. 
She had to lean over Eric in order to squeeze the bulb of the horn that was mounted on  the extreme left of the vehicle. As she lay across him, Eric was grateful for the thick canvas  duster. He put the car in gear, then turned down a path that followed the creek. When it  turned inland, Eric drove the car off the path and into a meadow and turned off the engine. 
He placed his hands on Sherry's waist as she hopped down, tripping slightly which pressed  her against him. Her touch went through Eric like an electric shock. ``God,'' he thought, ``I  wonder if she knows what she does to me.'' Then he saw her sly smile. ``She knows.'' 

They found a place near some rocks by the creek where the grass was only a few inches  tall. They spread the blanket, ate the food and played badminton, until the wind caught  the shuttlecock and deposited it in the creek. Their attempts to retrieve it were almost as  entertaining as playing the game. They ended up back on the blanket, he with his head in  her lap, she sitting with her back against a rock, idly toying with his hair. They were both  silent, listening to the sounds of Spring, the songs of birds, the drone of insects and the soft  splash of the stream. 
For the moment Eric put aside where he was, who he was, and his mission. He was  happy, secretly wishing this would never end. He opened his eyes and stared up at her face  haloed by the clouds above. He had never seen her more beautiful. 
``What are you thinking?'' He said softly. 
She didn't answer for a second. ``The war, the future, things,'' she answered quietly. 
``Such big thoughts,'' he began. 
``For such a little girl,'' she finished for him. 
``I wasn't going to say that,'' he lied. 
``Sometimes you are a lot like my father,'' she said. ``He tries to keep the war from me,  but he can't. I know too many people who have received the telegrams announcing someone  is gone forever. I have been to services for empty coffns, because some of them will never  be found.'' 
He sat up and took her hands. ``Father pretends I don't quite understand what he  goes through,'' she said. ``I know he feels responsible for all of those in his command and I  know it hurts him. And I know he's afraid.'' 
``Your father?'' Eric proclaimed. ``He's fearless.'' 
``No, not really,'' she said. ``Do you really think anyone can do what he does and not  be frightened.'' 
He reached out to capture a solitary tear flowing in the valley between her nose and  cheek. 
``I keep waiting for the day I receive the telegraph telling me he's gone,'' she said  bitterly. ``And it will be just so stupid old men can move some imaginary line on a map.'' 
``If this comes to pass, then what?'' Eric asked, then was sorry he did. 
``I'll live on,'' she said. ``Isn't that what people do? Live on?'' 
``I'll be there for you,'' Eric said. ``I won't leave you.'' 
They held each other tightly until the mood was broken by the touch of a raindrop. 
They gathered the picnic things and ran hand­in­hand to the car. Sherry tossed the things  on the passenger floor, while Eric set the ignition switch. The drizzle began to change into a  shower as the Bearcat decided not start with the first crank. It took four good pulls before  the engine coughed into life. The shower was getting heavier as the car reached the path  and became a downpour as the auto entered the shelter of the bridge. The rain had washed  away their glum mood and replaced it with a rush of excitement. Eric cut the ignition and 
the engine became silent. They sat in the grayness, listening to the echoing of rain on the  roof. They looked at each other for only a moment and then came together almost violently,  exploring each other with their lips, tongues and hands. 
The rain subsided and the two young people headed back to the house. They were met  on the porch with concern from Hanna and amusement by Gari. Even though Eric drove  slowly, they were covered in mud. Hanna scolded them both, swearing they would both fall  victim to all manner of illness and ordered Frau Kohler to heat water for a bath. Sherry  shook Eric's hand by way of good­bye. ``I'd kiss you,'' she said with a wink, ``but you are  too dirty.'' 
Gari walked Eric to his car. ``How far did you go?'' she asked. 
``Only a few kilometers,'' he replied. 
``That's not what I meant.'' 
``I know,'' he said smiling. ``Don't worry. She's still a virgin.'' 
``I don't care what you and your little friend get into,'' Gari said seriously. ``Just  remember the job.'' 
``Oh, I will, Auntie,'' Eric said, then quickly leaned over and kissed her on the cheek,  leaving a large splotch of mud. 
The week was routine at the base and, as the next weekend was Easter, Buch had  granted liberal leave. There would be problems if the squadron was called up to support  the offensive, but Buch doubted this would be the case. There was a banquet scheduled  for Wednesday night at Shed Ten he felt obliged to attend. Mariah hovered around him  the entire evening and although he was the gracious and gallant captain, he paid her little  attention. Although she laughed and chatted with the other girls, she was deeply hurt by  his behavior and excused herself early, feigning illness, and cried in her bed. This angered  her boss, who maintained she was there to make money, not moon over some offcer. 
By Good Friday the base was a ghost town. Only Goldberg's security forces supplied  any sign of activity. 
Eric was invited to the Buch house for the Easter weekend. Buch volunteered to ride  with him, provided he kept the Bearcat to a reasonable speed. 
The next afternoon Sherry, applying most of her feminine wiles, talked Eric into letting  her drive the car. The family sat on the front porch to watch. Hanna was sure the vehicle  would explode in a ball of flame or, at the very least, she would drive into a tree. The first  attempt caused the car to leap forward --- and die. This was repeated a second and third  time. Finally, weaving drunkenly, the car kept running and she headed down the path to the  road. Her attempts to shift gears resulted in the sound of grinding metal. Eric was grateful  when Frau Kohler announced dinner was being served. 
Easter Sunday Hans had the family coach polished, a brace of horses combed and  dressed in their best, everyone boarded it for church. 
This was the fourth Easter the congregation had observed during the war and hopes  of victory had been replaced with a desire for peace. Few young men were present and any 
that were, wore uniforms. Many of the women wore somber black in lieu of bright Easter  colors. The minister's sermon reflected the same mood, but he assured everyone God was  on their side and peace would soon come. Afterwards most of the town folk went to the  village green where a band played under a gazebo and there were stands selling food. Gari  and Buch strutted arm­in­arm looking the perfect German couple, while Eric and Sherry  walked behind holding hands, like perfect young lovers. The Kohlers sat on a park bench,  she holding his hand in her lap. Hanna sat beside them, terribly alone. Buch bought Gari  a bouquet and Eric got Sherry some Italian ice. Eric spotted a booth run by the Darhowers  selling little propellers that could be forced quickly up a twisted stick causing them to fly  through the air like falling maple seeds. The money would go to the widow's relief fund. 
``Eric,'' Reinhold shouted shaking his hand, ``we have not seen you for quite a while.'' 
He bowed to Sherry, ``And now, I see why.'' 
It was a peaceful day among a world at war. 
Later, as the horse plodded slowly through the country toward home, Gari leaned  closer to Buch. ``I'm going to miss all of you,'' she announced. 
The family was taken aback. Although she had been with them for only a short time,  she had become one of them. ``You will be leaving soon?'' Buch asked. 
``Yes,'' she replied. ``I'm afraid I must get home.'' She looked at the sad faces. 
Hanna was the first to speak, ``You will always have a home with us.'' 
``When will you leave?'' Buch asked. 
``Wednesday.'' 
``Then we have until then.'' 
Buch sat back thinking. He didn't love her, at least not in the way he had loved his  wife, but damn, she was fun to be with. He seriously doubted she was connected to anyone. 
She was like a wild bird that delights you with a song and fills you with joy, but would lose  its attraction in a cage. He realized he knew very little about her and strangely, he didn't  want to know more. 
Gari was thinking about Buch. He was fabulous, but she had gone as far as she was  able on the mission, and too much time at one place lead to questions and inquiries. The  task had to be turned over to Dantzler, even though she doubted his competence. He was  well placed to take advantage of the situation --- if he didn't trip on his penis. 
Dinner was scrumptious, ham, pork, mashed potatoes, hot German black bread, and  still warm apple pie. Everything had been raised on the farm, except for the coffee, flour  and sugar that had been carefully hoarded over the months. Afterwards, Hans broke out  a few jugs of cider and the men went out on the porch and loosened their belts, while the  ladies cleared the table and did the dishes. 
``Maybe I should go and see if I can help?'' Eric announced. 
``No,'' Buch warned with a wave, ``just sit and let them be. For some reason women  always seem to have this boundless energy after a good meal, while us men just want to  relax.'' He punctuated this sentience with an extremely loud burp. 

``Yah, Yah,'' Hans added, refilling his glass. ``That's true for other things too.'' 
Buch was to bring Gari into Elmsdorf to pick up some things she left at Eric's house. 
Two days later she would board the train to Leipzig and be gone. 
Now she told Eric: ``The safe is behind the picture with the sailing ship. When I asked  about my jewels, he took me right to it. He's so gallant, damn him.'' 
She handed Eric a key­ring. ``One of these is the safe,'' she said. ``Maybe you'll have  better luck. The man sleeps like a cat. Slightest noise and he's wide awake. I almost got  caught when I tried to sneak downstairs. If you get the chance, search his offce again. There  must be a safe there. Check again. If you manage to get pictures of the plans, send them to  me --- camera and all,'' she added. 
With that she presented him with a fancy wooden box. ``A going­away present from  your dear Auntie.'' 
Inside were stationery, ink and pens. 
``Thank you,'' he muttered. 
``Sweet Jesus,'' she said, shaking her head. ``The paper is flash paper. Touch it to a  flame and it ignites leaving no ash. The bottle with the white label is regular black ink, write  the body of your text with it but leave space. The one with the silver label is invisible ink. 
It writes brown but dries clear. You will send me reports written in it between the lines of  the letter. The gold label is developer. Dampen a cloth and rub it over any correspondence 
I send you. Instructions will appear.'' 
She closed the box. ``The letters won't stand close scrutiny, but they'll survive any  routine inspection,'' 
``What If someone suspects?'' 
``Then, dear boy,'' she said simply,`` you and I are dead.'' 
``If you are caught, co­operate. Forget all that masculine resistance bull. If they want  you to talk, you will.'' 
``What about you?'' he was shocked. 
``I'll probably know about your arrest before you do,'' she smiled. ``I can vanish quicker  than Houdini. 
Standing before him with her right hand to slowly caress his cheek she used her left  to stab at his crotch. ``Think with your brains, not your balls. If you get caught, you die. 
Remember that. You die.'' 
He slumped into the nearest chair. 
``Oh,'' she said sweetly, getting on her knees, ``Auntie didn't mean to hurt. Let me kiss  it and make it better.'' 
Two days later the whirlwind that was Adelgard Klopsic departed and the doldrums  again settled on Elmsdorf. 

The Game 
Eric now spent every spare moment with Sherry, and Buch seemed content to sit idly by  while the war ground to a halt. The Volant operation rarely entered his mind. Russia was  out of the war and Ludendorff would regroup and launch another attack. With the allies  still reeling from the March offensive, it was almost guaranteed to end the conflict. 
The hiatus in operations caused serious disciplinary problems. Buch knew the worst  activity troops can be engaged in is no activity at all. To this end, he ordered a short  increase in training flights, and volunteered the squadron for any kind of task. The German  film industry wanted to film the Western Front. ``Sure,'' thought Buch, ``why not?'' 
The security detachment was busy. They had received the barbed wire and the fence  was nearly finished. They were now building watch towers. The morale of the unit was  improving. Goldberg's insistence they had an important job told them they were important  to the job. They grudgingly admitted they were starting to respect the little one­armed 
Major. 
He had also organized a soccer tournament, believing this would help build unity among  the men. Most liked the idea, but were shocked when the Major himself showed up ready  to play. He noticed their discomfort and the stares at his stump. Playing with one arm was  no problem, what he missed was the use of both eyes. 
``Gentlemen,'' he announced, ``there is no rank on the soccer field.'' 
A big Neanderthal of a private named Detweiller decided this was the opportunity to  get even. As they chased the ball side by side, Detweiller threw out his arm hitting Goldberg  in the face, making his nose bleed. 
Goldberg sat on the sidelines while Grabenski stanched the flow. ``It might be good if  you sat out the rest. '' Grabenski whispered. ``That big bastard is trying to kill you.'' 
Goldberg swirled a mouthful of water and spat into the dirt. ``He's not even good at  it,'' he said. ``Someday I must tell you how I played professionally to pay my way through  university.'' 
When he rejoined the game, Detweiller fouled the major again. 
The major stole the ball from the opposition and was working it towards the goal. He  lined up the shot and kicked it hard. Detweiller blocked the shot with his groin. Spectators  winced and crossed their legs. The charging rhino that was Detweiller collapsed as if shot. 
He lay rolling on the ground gasping for air and holding his testicles. 
Detweiller tried to say something, but nothing came out. Two stretcher bearers came  out to take him to the dispensary. 

THE GAME 112 
``Don't worry,'' Goldberg said his voice full of concern, ``just keep the area packed in  ice.'' And remember, you saved a goal!'' 
After this incident his esteem among the men rose substantially, especially after De­  tweiller returned proclaiming, ``The major kicks like a mule.'' Grabenski smiled at this. 
Goldberg was no longer `the Jew', but had come to be known as `the Major'. 
Goldberg had a squad checking records of all personnel. He wanted to know who had a  criminal record? Who was a foreign national? They looked for Communists who warranted  further investigation. Civilians were also a problem. Many worked on base and many others  had access to the base. They got the same scrutiny. 
Lieutenant Rissinger was in charge of this task. Having sensed his antagonism for not  being made commander, the major increased Rissinger's responsibility, praised his perfor­  mance, as good offcer and recommended him for a promotion. 
``Here I have the file on Eric Dantzler,'' Goldberg said, holding out a brown folder. 
``How can we do a background check on a Swiss citizen? Surely the Swiss won't co­operate.'' 
``Ah,'' Rissinger said, ``you simply call Sergeant Harbold of the Bavarian Staatspolizei. 
He can get that information, shall we say, outside normal channels.'' 
Rissinger took the folder and thumbed through it. ``Do you want me to call him?'' 
``No, wait till we check everyone,'' Goldberg said, taking it back and throwing it on  the pile. ``There are others. I don't want to write the same letter five times.'' 

Berlin 
On April 9, Ludendorff struck again. German troops sliced through British divisions in 
Flanders, aiming to cut them from Channel ports where they could escape. This time,  despite tremendous pounding, the Allies were only shoved back 10 miles. The German drive  lost momentum and was halted eight days later. Ludendorff had won another battle, but  there was no breakthrough, and he had yet to win the war. 
German morale received another blow when the news broke on April 22 that Manfred  von Richthoffen, the invincible Red Baron, most famous hero of he war, had been shot down  and killed. 
Buch heard about it on a train to Berlin by picking up a paper that another passenger  had left on a seat. He was on his way to a high level meeting the following day. 
Buch was a country boy by nature and did not feel particularly comfortable in a big  city. As soon as he disembarked from the train, he felt stifled by too many people in too  small a space. The people seemed curt and sullen, having felt the burden of high prices  and shortages. Standing in line seemed to be the order of the day and a heavy police  presence was quite obvious. On the other hand, the news of the latest German victory at  the front generated excitement and curiosity, but this was counterbalanced by the grief and  disappointment at Richthoffen's death. In a way, he seemed to symbolize the country's state  of mind. He had flown so high and accomplished so much. The best of the best. Now he  was dead. The same death that is shared by the meanest, most insignificant private. 
Everybody seemed to think Buch had some information on the overall strategy of the  war. He felt like telling them that during the offensive, he had signed 42 requisitions, 13  recommendations for promotions, and presided over three disciplinary actions for disorderly  conduct, one of them involving an airman who urinated on a dog which had pissed on him. 
Hardly actions to give Germany its place in the sun. After the seventh Berliner asked him  when the war would end and he had answered ``I didn't know,'' he began saying: ``It will be  over by the end of the month.'' 
It was a lie, but it seemed to make people happy. He had just finished telling this lie  to the taxi driver who dropped him in front of a large, monolithic, stone faced, government  building nestled among a flock of similar large, monolithic, stone faced, government buildings. 
Inside monolithic, stone faced, men moved bits of wood across giant maps never thinking  that each piece represented hundreds of lives. Other monolithic, stone­faced, men processed  huge piles of yellow folders each representing the entire life of one individual. This one  promoted, this one transferred, this one wounded, this one deceased. In the basement of  one of the buildings was the true graveyard of Germany where little yellow folders stamped  with the word `Deceased' in red were placed in gray file cabinets. Rows and rows of gray 
mausoleums in alphabetical order. 
Buch's footsteps echoed in the lobby as he approached the receptionist desk, behind  which sat an uniformed woman who directed him to his destination with the utmost courtesy. 
He took the lift to the fifth floor and outside a pair of ornate doors was surprised to find 
Strasser waiting for him. He was beaming as he pumped Buch's hand. ``It looks like Volant  has been approved,'' he said. ``Did you hear about Richthoffen?'' 
``Yes,'' Buch said sadly, ``a dark day for Germany.'' 
Strasser nodded and gave Buch a good­natured slap on the back: ``You will be the new  light.'' 
The meeting was grueling and intense, lasting almost ten hours. Buch got the impres­  sion the High Command was losing faith in Ludendorff's ability to win the war and wanted  an ace up their sleeve. At the end of the meeting they were all in agreement: Operation 
Volant would proceed at all speed, with a generous budget. The final decision to execute  the operation would come from the High Command and the Kaiser. 
Strasser, Buch and Ziegler were invited to a relaxing evening at a local establishment  named La Baroness and one does not turn down an invitation from the most powerful men  in Germany. He returned to his hotel for a few hours sleep, dressed and met the others at  the entrance to the establishment. 
It was smoky and noisy inside. Business in the La Baroness was at a peak due to the  number of front­line troops granted leave during the lull in battle. 
The airship offcers worked their way to the bar to ask the bartender for directions to  room 5--5. They were handed frothy mugs of beer and told to wait for an escort. 
It reminded Buch of Shed Ten, only on a much grander scale but just as homey. There  was a sea of gray uniforms except for some in various states of undress with coats and boots  removed, and shirts open. Swimming in the sea were young ladies in even more pronounced  stages of undress, not a lot of intellectual interaction going on. The girls came downstairs  with one man and went back with another. Money flowed one way, cold beer the other. 
There are those who say money can't buy love or happiness, but these men who had faced  death and would do so again might argue but you sure could rent it. 
On a stage at the far end, a black man danced and played a harmonica. 
Then, a soft voice came from behind them. They turned to face a beautiful negress  in a skin­tight shimmering silver dress. The effect was as exotic as if they had come face to  face with a mermaid. ``Please follow me,'' she purred. 
The gray sea parted as she walked through it leading the three men. As they passed  in front of the stage Sydney Black, still playing the harmonica, spotted the zeppelin insignia  on the two naval offcers. He knew where Ammi was leading them and realized this might  be a rewarding evening if he could get off the stage. 
Ammi had an ability to judge men. She didn't like the Army offcer who she was sure  would be the most demanding and pay the least. She pitied the poor girl who would get  him for the night. The shorter of the two naval offcers would be generous and the most fun. 

Whoever got him would be in for a strenuous, but entertaining time. The taller one was the  most intriguing. He would be pleasant to be with. This girl would dream of roles other than  that of prostitution while he held her in his arms. It was not strange for her to judge these  men in sexual terms. After all, it was her job. 
She opened the door where men they had met with earlier were now arranged around  a different table in much more relaxed poses. 
``Welcome'' said an army general named Zimmerman. ``I see you've met our hostess.'' 
This came as a surprise as the three of them thought Ammi was one of the hired help. 
Buch was first to react. ``I am Captain Otto von Buch,'' he said with a slight bow, ``at  your service Fraulien.'' The other two quickly followed suit. 
``Ammi Orleans, gentlemen,'' she said with a smile. ``These facilities and I are definitely  at your service. Anything you desire, and I do mean anything, you need only to ask.'' 
``Come,'' Zimmerman said, ``make yourselves comfortable. We have food, drink, games  and good companionship.'' 
``And later that will be even better,'' a naval admiral named Yeager added. 
Buch and Strasser took off their jackets and boots, and loosened the top buttons of  their shirts. Ziegler did not, feeling such an unmilitary display before one's superiors was  not appropriate. If he thought he was making points with the high­ranking offcers present,  he was mistaken. Buch and Strasser filled their plates at the buffet table, picked up a stein  of beer and sat down to play cards. 
Sydney Black was playing accompaniment for a chubby woman singing a repertoire of  dirty ditties, the crowd roaring at every libidinous line. Sydney kept looking at the clock. 
There was an exotic dancer up next and she brought her own musician. While she performed,  he could slip away to his listening post. She hadn't shown up yet. 
``Damn,'' he thought. ``These idiots will still be going at three in the morning.'' 
Seething with anger inside, he knew it was out of the question to ask Ammi for time off. 
He'd have to be dying first. 
Ammi stood on the stairs looking over the crowd. She hadn't been seen this much  business in years. She'd juggled schedules and negotiated with competitors for extra girls. 
She noticed the belly dancer and her skinny musician, who also acted as pimp and husband,  coming in late as usual. She was glad she could give Sydney a break. 
Going to the basement, Sydney checked his watch and calculated he had maybe 30  minutes listening time. He grabbed the stethoscope and pad from their hiding place, got in  the closet and listened to the faceless voices. 
``I think you're bluffng. I'll see them.'' 
``Full house, aces over kings.'' 
``Damn.'' 
``Get me another beer will you?'' 
Nothing interesting. Just mindless banter, then. . . 

``Captain Buch, I understand you set a new altitude record.'' 
``Not on purpose I assure you. The DH 4 chasing me came in a close second.'' 
Sydney could now identify Buch's voice. 
``Any chance of these DH­5 things endangering the mission.'' 
``Not a chance.'' This was someone other than Buch. ``The three super zeppelins should  easily fly at 10000 meters.'' 
``Remarkable!'' 
``They're supposed to be ready at the end of next month,'' this was Buch's voice. ``We'll  pick them up and finish the modifications at Elmsdorf.'' 
``I would like to see them. Maybe even get a ride?'' 
``Anytime, general, I'd be happy to accommodate you.'' 
Sydney suddenly became aware of someone pounding on the basement door. ``Sydney,''  came a sweet voice, ``It's almost eleven.'' It was Sarah, Ammi's second­in­command. 
``I'se comin' ma'am,'' Sydney shouted. 
By two in the morning Sydney was playing sleepy music to the non­satisfied crowd,  which had thinned considerably. 
Ammi walked into room 5­5 and announced, ``How many of you gentlemen will be our  guests for the night.'' Three of the High command declined, as did Ziegler, who believed  moral strength enhanced his favor among those in command. 
``Stuck up, jackass,'' thought Zimmerman. 
``I will make the usual arrangements,'' Ammi said and closed the door behind her. 
``I'm sure going to miss this,'' Admiral Yeager said. 
The group had suspected that Yeager had drunk too much. 
``I think I know what you mean,'' Buch blurted out. ``Some day we will gather and  drink beer and tell stories. We will talk about the horror and sacrifice, but we won't talk  about or even remember the --- good times?'' 
``Exactly,'' Yeager shouted. ``The fun of war.'' 
In the hall Ammi was busy with Sarah trying to set up arrangements for the night. 
``I'm sorry Ammi,'' Sarah was saying, ``but with the crowd tonight no matter what I do I  come up two short.'' 
``Well my dear,'' Ammi said, stroking her shoulder: ``You and I will have to earn our  pay.'' Sarah looked disheartened. ``Don't worry. You go with the short sailor. He'll be fun.'' 
Ammi looked wistful, ``I'll go with the taller one. The one called Buch.'' 

Background Check 
On the evening Buch spent in La Baroness, Eric drove out to see Sherry, and passed a quiet  evening chaperoned by Hanna. It was late when he heard the rain. Leaping up, he ran  outside to throw a cover over his beloved car. By the time Eric came back, he was soaked, 
Sherry laughingly saying he looked like a wet kitten. 
Hanna said, ``Of course, you can sleep in the guest room. If you can't make it back in  the morning, you can use the phone.'' 
The phone was a recent addition to the Buch household and Hanna never missed an  opportunity to use it. It was Major Goldberg's idea. 
Hanna found a robe of Buch's that fitted Eric. He went to the guestroom, changed out  of his wet clothes, and said his goodnights clutching the robe tightly, thoroughly embarrassed. 
He banked the fire in the room's fireplace and got into bed. The fire made dancing shadows  on the wall. The drumming of the rain on the roof and the warmth of the down comforter  eased him to sleep in minutes. 
He awoke sensing someone in the room. The fire had died to glowing embers. He  thought he was dreaming as the presence in a red silk kimono glided across and joined him  under the covers. The presence became Sherry and the red silk robe a pile on the floor. 
He felt the smoothness of her skin. Her passion was unmistakable. ``We shouldn't,'' he  whispered. 
``Do you want me to leave?'' 
His brain screamed ``yes'' but his lips moaned ``no.'' She rolled on top of him. 
As quiet as they tried to be, the sound of their passion penetrated Hanna's room. She  listened and knew. For a second she contemplated what she should do. Storm into the room  shouting and demanding Eric leave? Wait, tell Otto and let him handle it? 
It became very quiet, and in the silence Hanna knew what she would do; nothing. She  wouldn't deny Sherry her moment of love, not in a world so filled with pain. She remembered  a night much like this long ago. His name was David, and he was burning inside her as she  reached climax. The door burst open and her father was there. David cowered as he tried to  gather his clothes, her father whipping him viciously with a broad belt. His fury turned to  her as David escaped down the stairs. He hit her again and again, calling her whore, harlot,  slut, jezebel. In time, the sting of the strap diminished. The sting of his words did not. She  never saw David again, but even now, years after his death, she still hated her father. 
The sounds of renewed passion were coming from the other room. Hanna turned her  face into her pillow and wept softly. 

Buch returned to Elmsdorf still not excited about Volant. Although his trip to Berlin  was more interesting than he would have imagined, he still believed the war would be over  before his plan was launched. He called a meeting between Diehl, Gerber and Goldberg and  warned them they would receive three new zeppelins for a highly­classified project. ``Diehl, 
I would like you to remain as my first offcer,'' he told the younger man. ``I know how much  you want your own command, but I want a man I can trust in that position. Gerber, you  will train your crew as backup. Goldberg, I'm really pleased with what you've done so far. 
You have carte blanche when it comes to security. Anybody complains, send them to me.'' 
He looked at each man in turn. ``I want to emphasize, this is utmost top secret. There  are to be no leaks.'' 
``May I ask a question Commander?'' It was Goldberg. 
``Of course.'' 
``If word of this reached the Allies, would they attack us?'' 
Buch thought for a minute, ``Yes, I'm sure they would.'' 
``Then, sir, might I suggest we see if we can get a squadron of aircraft assigned here  for defense.'' 
``You're right, Major,'' Buch replied, ``I'll see what I can do.'' 
Eric received a perfumed letter from Gari. In flowery language and flowing script, she  described Spring in Leipzig and the social scene, and asked about the health of everyone at  the Buch household. 
He opened the writing kit she had given him and dampened a handkerchief with the  fluid in the silver bottle. As he wiped it over the paper, printed words darkened and appeared. 
``New zeppelins expected to be delivered by end of May. Expect detailed report upon  arrival. Require plans immediately! Report on progress.'' 
He touched the tip of the paper to a match and the letter disappeared in a flash. 
Eric Dantzler's personnel file traveled via Captain Reinssinger to the Captain of the 
Bavarian Staatspolizei along with dozens of others. Captain Harbold divided these with his  staff and Eric Dantzler's folder became the responsibility of a Sergeant Gessaman who in turn  forwarded it to the Chief of Police, Friedrichshafen. To Chief Stouffer such background checks  were routine; he had often been called on to perform such tasks for the Zeppelin Company. 
He contacted his counterpart across the Swiss border, but never mentioned possible spies and  saboteurs. The use of Swiss police for such actions would be illegal. A criminal investigation  would be different. So Offcer Johan Elbe of the Friedrichshafen Police boarded the early  morning ferry to spend the day with Pieter Costello of the Constance Police Department. 
They had a good day. The two men finished two interviews in the morning and shared  an excellent lunch. Toward the end of the day, Offcer Costello knocked on the door the  house of Hans and Ruth Dantzler. Elbe hoped this would be as routine as the others and  he would be on the next ferry to Germany. 
The door was opened by a short, white­haired woman and Costello went into his spiel  about how they were conducting a routine background check on Eric Dantzler. Elbe was 
introduced as his assistant. 
Offcer Elbe had been a policeman for over twenty years. Although crime levels in the  little town of Friedrichshafen did not compare with Berlin or Munich, he had still cultivated  a cop's instinct. This woman was afraid of them and was covering something up. She called  her husband and the four of them sat in the living room, Costello asking the questions. 
The couple answered about the family history, Eric's education, present employment  and so on. When Costello asked, ``Has your son ever had any trouble with the law?'' They  both chorused, ``No.'' 
Elbe knew it was a lie. There was a curt exchange of glances, a tremble of a lip, a  slight tightening of the face muscles, things an untrained eye wouldn't see. When Costello  announced he was done and thanked them for their time, they were obviously relieved. The  woman offered the policemen a cup of coffee, but she was glad they declined. 
``Is Eric in any trouble?'' the old woman asked anxiously. 
``Oh no,'' Costello assured her, ``this is just routine.'' 
The two policemen tipped their caps, wished the couple good day and walked down  the street. 
``What do you think?'' Elbe asked. 
``Your people should check into this fellow more,'' Costello answered. He had also been  a policeman for more than a decade and his instincts weren't exactly dull. 
The folder bearing the name `Eric Dantzler' journeyed back through the chain until it  again lay on Goldberg's desk. Inside was a hand­written memo that read: 
To whom it may concern, 
Although investigation did not show anything amiss in this individual's record,  the attitude and deportment of those interviewed would seem to indicate that  further investigation be conducted. 
Yours truly, 
Offcer Johan Elbe 
Friedrichshafen Police Dept. 
Dantzler's folder was placed on a pile labeled ``Berlin''. These would be sent to Army 
Intelligence Headquarters where it would be handled by those much better trained and  experienced in this sort of thing. 
Had Sydney examined his feelings, he would have been shocked to discover he no longer  dreaded the weekly trysts with Gurta Krouse. Although the homosexual acts still disgusted  him, he enjoyed his role of dominance, being the master. It became his drug, and like most  drugs, he failed to see the effect it was having on him. The old woman who rented the room  was now afraid of him. He had snapped at some of the girls at La Baroness and had glared  at some of the customers in a manner not in keeping with his role as the resident fool. 

``I know a man who would pay good money for something called `Volant' and `Buch's  plan','' Sydney said nonchalantly to a sexually exhausted Krouse. ``I told him you could  probably get it.'' 
Krouse reared back as if struck. ``I can't do that,'' he stammered, `it's treason. I could  be shot.'' 
``You'll either die a traitor or live with everybody knowing you're a queer,'' Sydney  snarled. 
``No,'' Krouse insisted, ``I have my --- weaknesses, but I will not become a traitor.'' 
``You'll do what you're told.'' 
``No!'' 
Sydney's hand snapped like a bullwhip, slapping Krouse hard. He staggered back,  falling on the bed. His vision darkened at the edges while meteors of light flashed across his  eyes. The pain was excruciating, more than if he had been hit with a closed fist. 
Sydney put his lips next to the red welt that was forming on Krouse's cheek and spoke: 
``Should I send the pictures to General Heinrich Krouse? Show him what his son has been  doing in Berlin?'' 
The fight went out of Kouse like air from a balloon. Krouse appeared to physically  shrink. ``Oh, God,'' he sobbed, hiding his face in his hands. 
``Don't worry,'' Sydney said with a smile, ``I won't ask for anything else. After this  you'll be done with me.'' 

La Baroness 
``Colonel Rudloff Brunner,'' the monocled Prussian offcer announced, clicking his heels and  bowing. He was a tall, extremely thin, immaculately dressed offcer with an effeminate air, 
``I am representing Herr Gussman.'' 
Buch looked puzzled. 
``You offered to supply a zeppelin for Herr Gussman to use to photograph the Western 
Front?'' 
Buch remembered. He had volunteered the previous month in order to give his  squadron something to do. He had considered bowing out now that they had a real job  to do. Then he thought, ``Why not? It's good practice and it will raise moral.'' 
``I'm sorry,'' Buch said rising, ``It slipped my mind. Captain Otto von Buch, at your  service.'' The flight was set for Saturday, May 4 in the Ypers Salient, now in German hands. 
Brunner could arrange a fighter escort and obtain last minute intelligence. The two shook  hands and Brunner departed. 
``Shultz,'' Buch told his long suffering clerk, ``go get Diehl.'' He would brief Diehl and  have him get the word out to the men. ``Yes,'' he thought, ``They will enjoy this.'' 
Sydney Black would be glad when he no longer needed Gurta Krouse. He'd had begun  to hate him intensely, not only for what he was, which Sydney could tolerate, but for what  he was himself becoming. 
Krouse was already in the gloomy room, nervously smoking a cigarette. The ashtray  next to him was filled with smoky butts. 
``Do you have the papers?'' 
``No,'' Krouse stammered. ``But I'll have them next week.'' 
``Make sure you do,'' Sydney began undoing his belt. 
``I'd rather not this week,'' Krouse said, hugging himself tightly. 
``Who cares what you want?'' Sydney snarled as he removed his trousers. ``Get over  here.'' 
Krouse did as he was told. 
``Oh lord,'' Sydney thought. ``What am I doing?'' 
The La Baroness was in the middle of a minor disaster. There was a bit of a panic as  smoke began to curl out from under the basement door. Ammi was quick to note the cloud  did not smell of smoke, but rather steam. She ordered Sarah to run to her desk and bring  the ring of keys in the center drawer and then run to get the plumber. 

LA BARONESS 122 
``Fraulien Ammi,'' Plumber Shoemacher shouted from across the basement, ``I am sorry,  but a hot water pipe burst and allowed steam to escape from the boiler. I've shut off the  main valve. That should hold until tomorrow. You won't have any hot water though.'' 
``Can you fix it tonight?'' 
Herr Shoemacher hesitated. 
``I'll pay extra,'' Ammi added. 
``I'll get right on it,'' Shoemacher said wondering what his wife was going to say when  he told her he would be spending the night in a whore house. 
Shoemacher left to get his tools and his son to assist him, while Ammi and Sarah  surveyed the damage. The water was gurgling down drains built into the basement floor,  but everything was wet from the steam. Warm water dripped from the ceiling beams. 
Sydney's camera was protected with a canvas cover, but this was no guarantee the moisture  didn't get into the mechanism. 
``Poor Sydney will be devastated when he gets back,'' Ammi said. She promised herself  she would reimburse him for the damage. 
She unlocked the door to his room. Unknown to Sydney, she had keys to the basement  and Sydney's room in case of such emergencies. She wasn't about to trust such vital areas  of the building to an idiot. 
His room was a mess. Although the pipe that had ruptured was outside the room, it  had squirted water through the gap between the wall and ceiling and soaked the interior. 
She sent Sarah to get a wash basket and some other girls and began to remove the wet  things in the closet. There was a laundry room on the fifth floor with a stair leading to  a clothes lines strung out on the roof. She hesitated as she puzzled over a series of circles  that the steam had caused to appear on the back wall of the closet, then she shrugged and  turned her attention to the soaked bed, removing the blankets and sheets, and with Sarah's  help twisted them. They struggled with the soggy mattress, which poured out water when  placed on edge. They carried it outside the room and propped it against the wall. It was  too heavy for them. Ammi would have Sydney and Shoemacher carry it to the roof later. 
Ammi dismissed Sarah and went back to make sure she had done everything. 
On the bare springs of the bed lay a large, soaked, brown envelope. When she went  to pick it up, the envelope crumbled and some photos tumbled out. Ammi could feel her  face flush as she looked at the pictures of Sydney with another man. These were not the  pornography that he typically made, these pictures were for blackmail. 
It was after midnight before Sydney returned to La Baroness. He knew something was  wrong as soon as he saw the basement door ajar and felt panic as he rushed down the stairs. 
Herr Shoemacher sat at the top of a ladder while his fifteen­year­old son handed up tools. 
``The pipe broke,'' Shoemacher offered by way of explanation. 
Sydney wanted to curse and rage, but he didn't. He dashed into his room and checked  the secret compartments in his bureau and was relieved to discover they had not been  tampered with. Then he noticed the bed. He frantically searched the floor and rushed out  to inspect the mattress praying the envelope had stuck to it. It was gone. 

LA BARONESS 123 
Sarah came part way down the steps. ``Ammi wants to see you in her offce,'' she  called, a note of haughtiness in her voice. 
He ran up the steps past her. 
Ammi stood up as he walked into her offce and carefully closed the door. ``I'm sorry  about your room,'' she began. ``I'll fix that. But I want to talk to you about these.'' She  held up the photographs. 
``I know what these are for and I want to know who put you up to this. You couldn't  have thought this up on your own. I showed them to Captain Zintner. . . '' 
He felt his world cave in like a house of cards in an earthquake. Zintner was a police  captain. 
``What did you tell him?'' he growled. Anger overwhelmed him. 
Ammi fell back stunned. It was a totally different man standing before her, a man to  be feared. 
She looked in his eyes and felt a chill. ``I just showed him the pictures,'' she stammered. 
``He recognized the man and said he would talk to his superiors in the morning.'' 
``Oh, God,'' Sydney thought as he wiped his face with a shaking hand. ``I'm losing it.'' 
He fought for control of himself. ``I'se sorry Miss Ammi,'' assuming his subservient  role. ``I won't do it again. Promise.'' 
``All right,'' Ammi said feeling again in command of the situation, ``we'll talk more  later.'' 
The morning papers carried the report of the fire, which burned during the night,  killing Police Captain Matthew Zintner, of the Berlin police department, his wife and small  son. 
As Ammi read the article and couldn't help but suspect Sydney was involved. She did  not know what to do. 

The Movie 
The film crew arrived at Elmsdorf at four o'clock on a crisp morning. The small convoy  consisted of a truck, which carried the cameras and some of the work crew, and a large 
Daimler limousine for Colonel Rudloff Brunner, Herr Frederick Gussman, director and a  man named, Schwartz, his chief cameraman. 
Gussman had a full beard, big ears and beady, intense eyes, and was a legend in 
Germany. He had made a fortune in plumbing fixtures and was well into middle age when  he saw his first moving picture. He promptly sent money to Thomas Edison, to acquire  his own movie­making machinery. He found he had a talent, so investing heavily in the  fledgling German film industry, he grew another fortune. His specialty became the epic  giant, sprawling productions with scores of actors. He set the industry abuzz by filming 
Wagner's `Gotterdammerung' and showing it in theaters synchronized to one of Edison's  phonographs. 
Gussman shook Buch's hand with considerable strength and Buch realized the little  man was all muscle and energy. 
Cameraman Schwartz was just the opposite, round, with a clean­shaven, baby­like face. 
He moved slowly and methodically, like the turtle in the fable, he gave the impression that  when the race was over, he would be the first across the finish line. 
Gussman talked to Buch about what he wanted to accomplish, while Schwartz was  turned over to CPOs Becker and Mohne for the technical end. The hand­cranked camera  would need special lubricants to work at high altitudes, Becker explained, and a special yoke  to mount the camera into either of the two ports in the aft end of the gondola that usually  accommodated a machine gun. 
The zeppelin had been moved out of the shed early. The flight offcers had been present  since three a.m., carefully scrutinizing the latest maps and intelligence. At no time would  they be within range of Allied anti­aircraft guns and not even the dumbest German gunners  could mistake a zeppelin. What Buch did worry about was the location of German and 
Allied artillery firing by coordinates which blindly hurled tons of steel toward targets they  did not see. It would be the height of stupidity for L 38 to blunder into their path. 
By five o'clock the ship was ready. The cameras were loaded and mounted, fuel tanks  were full, and the crew at their stations with cold weather gear and oxygen equipment. In  the east the blackness of night had just a tinge of indigo. The two film makers boarded. 
Buch turned to Colonel Brunner: ``You will not be flying with us, Colonel?'' he asked. 
``Alas, no,'' Brunner replied with a slight bow, ``my mother once told me I may have  my head in the clouds, but keep my feet on the ground. Who would argue with his mother?'' 

Buch climbed the short ladder into the gondola. He was in an extremely good mood. 
His sailor's nose detected a beautiful day ahead and the feel of the airship, his airship,  beneath his feet was intoxicating. 
He nodded to Diehl. ``Status?'' Diehl shouted. 
``Helm ready, sir!'' 
``Elevators ready, sir!'' 
``Navigation ready, sir!'' 
From the speaking tubes came a similar reply from the engine pods and launch stations. 
``The ship is ready, sir!'' Diehl announced. 
``Launch the ship, number one,'' Buch said. 
Diehl leaned out the window and shouted, ``Up ship!'' 
The massive aircraft rose like a giant soap bubble. Buch gave the order: ``Start en­  gines.'' 
Inside each engine pod, two men were prepared to turn cranks that started the massive 
Maybachs. As each coughed to life, they fiddled with their valves and levers. It was a matter  of pride not to be the last to start. 
``All engines operating normally.'' 
``All engines half speed. Come to a heading of 195 degrees. Altitude one thousand  meters,'' Buch ordered. 
This was answered with a chorus of, ``Aye, sir.'' 
The floor of the zeppelin tilted as the ship started to move forward and gain altitude. 
Buch watched as the base and town of Elmsdorf slipped beneath them. 
Gussman was as excited as a little boy. Schwartz acted as if he did this every day. 
``Gentlemen,'' Buch said, ``if you look out the left window, prepare to witness the most  beautiful sunrise you have ever seen.'' 
It was everything Buch promised. Gussman declared he would have given vital parts of  his anatomy for color film. Schwartz filmed the sunrise and his boss had him shoot colossal  amounts of film of the green German countryside. ``Great footage, great footage,'' he kept  muttering. 
They were entranced by a of a flight of geese, their honking clearly audible, sailing  majestically in V formation below and parallel to the zeppelin. 
``We have to watch out,'' Diehl informed them. ``Angry geese will attack an airship  and can do a lot of damage.'' 
They cruised southwest at a leisurely pace, Buch did not want the trip to be a mere  pleasure cruise and called for three high­altitude drills, a siren screamed through the ship  while the men raced to don their cold weather jackets and face masks. 
Gussman and Schwartz took part, Schwartz finding he could not operate the camera  in the heavy gloves. Becker handed him a pair of thin cotton gloves from his pocket. ``These  will prevent frostbite and your flesh won't stick to any bare metal.'' 

The offcers put on heavy leather overcoats and wrapped scarves around their heads. 
Two hours had passed when the L 38 floated over the German --- Belgian frontier. 
Eric Dantzler began the drive to his rendezvous with Sherry Buch. He drove slowly,  as this gave him time to ponder his troubles. He was in torment. He had fallen in love with 
Sherry, but he was a phony living a false existence, whose job it was to betray the person she  most admired and loved, her father. His relationship with the girl was way out of control. 
To abandon Sherry was unthinkable. To betray his country was just as bad. 
Should he refuse to spy anymore? What would happen if the Allies won? Or lost, for  that matter? Should he tell her the truth? Would she understand? Feel used? Would she  put her country and her father ahead of him? 
He didn't want her to be in that position and was unsure how he would fair in that  struggle. She would suffer regardless. 
He even thought of tricking her to run away to a neutral country, but he knew neutrality  was an illusion. Stanley Boyer would have a long reach. He could be shot by the Germans  for being a spy, or shot by the Allies for being a traitor. 
He prayed the damned war would end. He didn't care who won. Since the night when  she came to his room, they had sex at every opportunity. Like young people through the  ages, they acted as if they had invented it. If they don't stop, the inevitable would happen  and fatherhood would really throw a wrench in the works. He had obtained condoms, which  were plentiful during the war, from the proprietor of Shed Ten. There were two kinds, one  made of sheep's intestines and prone to break, and rubber ones that felt like an inner tube. 
Neither of them liked either, and would conveniently `forget' them. 
As the Zeppelin sailed on, the ground started to change. The gleaming green dulled  and roads were crowded with small dark shapes like so many marching ants. A dirty brown  haze appeared on the horizon, clinging to the ground like dingy fog. 
``The front,'' Diehl pointed out to Gussman and Schwartz, answering their puzzled  expressions. 
They could hear the soft rumble of distant thunder. Diehl stated simply, ``The war.'' 
The ground below was talking on aspects of some great, man­made, desert. Buch had  the zeppelin brought down to 300 meters, close enough for the ants to become men, who  waved and shouted as the zeppelin glided overhead. 
``What's that?'' Schwartz asked, pointing to a rectangular gray box that moved on the  ground like a large beetle. 
``A tank,'' Diehl offered. ``An A7V, with a crew of eighteen.'' 
Buch looked at him with a puzzled expression. ``I read it in a magazine,'' Diehl ex­  plained with a shrug. 
They passed over the skeletal remains of a town of a village called Chateau de St. 
Germain. Gutted walls of the town church made a large cross on the ground. Across the  road was what had been the police station, its remains somehow like a grinning skull. Buch 
ordered the zeppelin lower so Guzzman could get better pictures. There were few a troops  in the town and Buch was amazed to see that some of the shops were open for business. 
The ground became covered with gleaming circles outlined in brown, many of which  overlapped each other. It was the sun reflecting in water­filled shell holes and bomb craters. 
A tent city grew in the wasteland and many of the tents had large white circles with red  crosses on them. Row after row of artillery could be seen pointing at the shrouded enemy. 
``Last month that was the front,'' Buch pointed out. Even at their height, a stench  started to creep into the zeppelin, a mixture of cordite, gas, urine, feces, and blood. It was  the stink of the war mixed by a million shells. 
Gussman said aloud. ``How do they stand it?'' 
Diehl said, ``They probably don't even notice.'' 
In the distance a gash appeared much darker than its surrounding soil, no­man's­land. 
The color was caused by artillery constantly turning the soil. Nothing grew, just barbed  wire and the wood and metal posts used to support it, torn and twisted by bombardment. 
Scattered about were the ruptured hunks of tanks, or the bloated corpses of dead horses. 
Human corpses where usually removed by mutual agreement. 
There were no more roads, just deep grooves, trenches. The most impressive ran  parallel to no­man's­land and there were sometimes three or four of them. A number of  trenches interconnected while small trenches jutted into no man's land like feelers. There  was the remains of a building of some kind at the top of a hill and a jumble of small white  markers that may have been tombstones. Intelligence reports had identified a build up of 
French troops in this area and it seemed an attack was imminent. 
The zeppelin moved slowly in easy view of the battlefield, but still out of range of 
French guns. Buch consulted his watch. ``Tell all the men to be on the look out,'' he said to 
Diehl. ``We are supposed to get some escort. Make very sure any plane approaching us is  ours.'' 
As he spoke, a series of mushrooms appeared on the front, accompanied by a low  rumble. It was the French artillery `walking' toward the German trenches. Gray figures  could be seen scrambling and a huge cloud of dust drifted toward the zeppelin. 
``Take us up about 200 meters. All ahead two thirds, nine zero degrees.'' Buch com­  manded. 
``We don't want that crud getting caught in the intakes,'' he told Gussman as Schwartz  cranked furiously on the camera. Gussman stared back at the brown cloud that covered the  little hill. 
``What are those?'' he asked, pointing to black dots that appeared and disappeared in  the air. 
``Artillery shells,'' Diehl told him, ``as they reach the top of their arc they slow down  enough to be seen from this altitude.'' 
The bombardment was now continuous as the brown cloud churned and gave out bright  flashes of light. The zeppelin flew east for ten minutes before Buch ordered it to head west 
again. The intensity of the shelling had not diminished and a slight northeast wind extended  the cloud, to the horizon. Then it was over. The flashes stopped and the cloud began to lift. 
``Now the attack begins,'' Diehl said softly. 
``Attack what?'' Gussman shouted, ``Nothing could survive that.'' 
He stared in disbelief as they drew nearer the hill. Little gray figures appeared out of  the ground, swarming through the trenches, assuming positions, carrying gray bodies away  from the hill. 
A hundred whistles could be heard from the French lines and then thousands of small  blue figures began scrambling from trenches on the south side of no­man's land. The small  figures formed a long blue line, four or five deep as they advanced slowly across the battlefield. 
The French reached the first row of barbed wire and coagulated around openings blasted  into the wire. 
It was the German artillery's turn to fire. 
Shrapnel shells exploded above the blue figures. Geysers of dirt erupted into the air. 
The German defenders opened fire. The clatter of hundreds of machine guns crackled, like  a bonfire of wet wood. Little blue figures fell and lay still. 
``Sir, aircraft at four o'clock,'' one of the gunners sang out. 
``Stand by ballast.'' If the approaching aircraft were not the promised escort, Buch  wanted to be able to grab all the life­giving altitude he could. 
``They're Tripes, sir,'' the gunner said, then the man remembered he wasn't supposed  to use slang. ``Twelve Fokker Dr1 Triplanes approaching.'' 
Diehl looked at the approaching aircraft and grinned. ``Jasta 11,'' he said, ``Richthof­  fen's Flying Circus.'' 
The twelve gaily­painted triple­winged aircraft began to sweep around the zeppelin like  dolphins around a ship. As each of the squadron flew by the left side, he did a barrel roll. 
The zeppelin crew cheered. 
On the ground men in gray and those in blue were in desperate combat. Bodies were  pierced by bayonet and bullet, skulls were crushed by gun butts and faces beaten to pulp  by entrenching tools. French and German voices shouted, cursed, pleaded, and cried out to  their gods and mothers. 
In the zeppelin, Schwartz was filming the antics of Germany's most famous heroes, the 
Flying Circus. Gussman laughed like a child as two Fokkers zipped down the right side, one  inverted beneath the other, their wheels close. 
``Stay on the planes, stay on the planes,'' he told Schwartz. 
Little blue figures scrambled back to their lines, over the bodies of their comrades. 
The roar of the Fokker's engines drowned out the noise from the battlefield below. Within  minutes, except for the little blue specks dotting no­man's land, all was as it had been before. 
The zeppelin headed west accompanied by the squadron of airplanes, the movie men  gleefully photographing their every move. After about a half­hour of uneventful cruising, a 
yellow and red Fokker took up position dangerously close to the gondola. The pilot `blipped'  his engine off and on to slow the plane enough to keep space with the much slower airship. 
Buch didn't like having a plane so close to his ship. ``I hope that fool knows what he's  doing,'' he said angrily. 
``He should sir,'' Diehl said, ``He's the new commander who replaced Richthoffen. I  can't remember his name. . . '' 
``If he doesn't back off, his name won't matter.'' 
The pilot's face was covered with a red scarf that fluttered in the wind as he made a  series of gestures indicating his squadron was low on fuel. 
Buch saluted, acknowledging the message. The squadron formed up behind the zep­  pelin then passed down its right side in formation, each pilot holding a salute that the  zeppelin crew returned. They were swept by a wave of the camaraderie between warriors. 
Gussman seemed near tears, possibly from patriotism, or anticipation of the accolades  he was sure to receive when the film was shown. 
``Come to a heading of zero one five,'' Buch commanded. ``Let's go home.'' 
``Now I remember,'' Diehl announced, `The name of the new commander of Jasta 11. 
It's Goering, Herman Goering.'' 
Sherry and Eric had driven across the Frechen creek to a small wooded hill overlooking  the river. In the distance they could see the village and the zeppelin base. Sherry had  unloaded the picnic things and laid them out. Eric came unseen from behind her, hugged  her close and kissed her neck. This awoke a hunger in both which could not be satisfied by  some chicken. They looked carefully around then dashed into a small copse of trees to make  love. 
``Aircraft, sir. Eight o'clock. Type, unknown. Range 20 kilometers.'' The gunner  pointed behind and to the left. Buch used his field glasses to spot them. 
``Four Sopwith Camels,'' he said aloud, ``heading east.'' 
He handed the glasses to the gunner. ``Keep an eye on them. Let me know if they  alter course.'' 
Heading away northeast of them they could still see the Flying Circus. 
``Shouldn't we call them back?'' Gussman asked nervously. 
``Diehl,'' Buch said in mock seriousness, ``open a window and give Goering a yell.'' 
Buch patted Gussman on the back. ``Sorry,'' he apologized, ``a little laugh at your  expense. We can't contact them and if we could they are too low on fuel to help.'' He  pointed to the little dots that were the Sopwiths. ``They are on patrol heading east and are  probably not set up to hunt us. I'll tell you when to get worried.'' 
``Sir, the aircraft are at our five o'clock position and have altered course.'' 
``Probably want to chase us out of their territory,'' Buch said. ``All engines, ahead  full.'' 

Both he and Diehl expected them to turn back at any time, as every second took the 
Camels deeper into German territory. 
``Persistent bastards,'' Diehl whispered. ``Don't they know they can't hurt us.'' 
Buch shrugged, ``Probably been a slow day and they hope to get lucky.'' 
Suddenly, the hunters got very lucky. 
The man in charge of ballast who pulled the levers that spilled water so the zeppelin  could climb, discovered one of the levers refused to open or close. ``Aft ballast valve jammed  at 15 percent,'' the man shouted. 
``Becker. . . ,'' Buch yelled. 
``I'm on it, Captain,'' Becker said, opening a small door at the side of the cabin from  which he took a small canvas bag and a flashlight. Then, beckoning one of the two gunners  to join him, he opened the hatch and climbed the ladder into the envelope. Becker was like a  surgeon, he knew every rib and sinew of the zeppelin. The tendons of the zeppelin were steel  cables stretching from the control gondola to their tasks. Some operated the huge rudders  and elevators or went to the top of the gas bags to open and close the gas valves while others  controlled the ballast valves on the large canvas water containers called `breeches' because  they looked like a pair of pants. The cables rode upon hundreds of small grooved pulleys,  each with a small cotter pin installed to insure the cable didn't jump out of the grooves. As  an airship rose into colder atmosphere, it contracted. The cables contracted at a much slower  rate, so they tended to lose their tension at altitude. In order to solve this problem, each  cable rode over a series of tensioners, spring loaded levers with pulleys on them. The springs  tended to break, allowing the cable to go slack. Occasionally the cable would jump from the  pulley and wedge itself between the pulley and the very cotter pin installed to prevent the  problem. 
This is what Becker looked for as he ran the length of the catwalk, shining the flashlight  on the network of wires below him. Some were as thick as his finger, others thinner than a  pencil. His eyes caught a place where the cable slacked slightly. He leaped from the catwalk  and balancing himself on one of the zeppelin's ribs. He saw the bent cotter pin and the  wedged cable. ``Go see Krebs. Tell him I need a tensioner spring and a cotter pin,'' he told  the gunner. ``Move!'' 
In the control gondola Buch watched the British fighters now less than five kilometers  distant. The zeppelin rose at a very slow rate. The forward ballast tank could not be dumped  faster than the rear. The zeppelin was at a ten­degree angle at the bow. Anything greater  and the gas bags would try to shift forward, which caused too much stress on the structure  and the bags. 
``Prepare for high altitude,'' Buch said calmly. ``Every one to battle stations.'' 
Diehl pressed the button sounding the alarm. Men all over the ship donned their cold  weather gear and oxygen masks. 
Both Gussman's and Schwartz's eyes were as big as saucers. 
``Gentlemen,'' Buch said. ``You may begin to worry.'' 

In the bowels of the ship Becker removed a pair of diagonal cutters from his canvas  bag and was working feverishly. He pulled out a pin like a dentist pulling a tooth just as the  gunner and Krebs came scampering down the catwalk. 
``What do you want me to do?'' Krebs asked nervously. 
``Just don't drop that damn spring,'' Becker said, as he squatted by the pulley. 
He easily placed the cable back into the pulley groove inserted the cotter pin and  quickly bent the tangs. That taken care of, he searched for the broken spring. He saw it  two ribs to the rear and by carefully placing his feet on the stringers, worked his way to the  spot. He removed the cotter pin keeping the cable in the groove of the tensioner pulley. 
There was no way he could replace the spring with the cable in place. Then he removed  the pieces of the broken spring and replaced it with the new one. 
``Now the hard part,'' he muttered. 
The air was becoming thin and the temperature was now below zero. The Camels were  getting within firing range. Men throughout the zeppelin had gone to combat positions. 
There was a machine­gun mounted in the tail and below the aft vertical stabilizer. Machine  guns now poked out of windows on each engine pod plus two from the catwalk at the bottom  of the ship. The gondola poked a gun out its right side and, on the top of the ship, two  manned machine guns were mounted on stanchions. Buch had decided he would have to  fight. 
``Give me twenty degrees right rudder and hold it,'' he told the helmsman. 
The zeppelin started to make a lazy turn, bringing more guns to bear on the approach­  ing airplanes. 
``Altitude?'' 
``Three thousand twenty meters.'' 
The men's rapid breath now formed clouds before their faces as they spoke. Some of  the men were already taking deep draughts of oxygen from their bottles. 
The men cheered as one of the fighters waggled its wings and nosed over earthwards. 
``They have no high altitude gear,'' Diehl remarked. 
A second Camel rolled over and started to spin toward the earth, the pilot unconscious  from lack of oxygen. Little flashes twinkled on the noses of the two remaining Camels. 
Bullets came through the floor making a zinging sound. Some struck the framing  causing bright sparks. Diehl reared back as a splinter of bullet grazed his face causing blood  to flow. ``Damn,'' he said wiping the blood from his cheek, ``At least they're not shooting  tracers.'' 
``Come on, Becker,'' Buch muttered. 
Becker had been caught off balance by the airship's sudden turn and almost fell off  the rib where he was precariously balanced. He had to get the cable into the groove of the  tensioner pulley quickly. By putting all his weight on a spanner with his right hand and  pulling on the cable with his left, he hoped to get the cable in place. As he got in position 
he saw a line of holes appear in the zeppelin's skin, bullet holes. He looked up at Krebs,  now gasping for air and turning blue. ``Go,'' Becker shouted. Krebs staggered towards the  rear of the ship. 
The Camels made a pass down the right side, firing their guns, then turned and made a  pass down the left. The zeppelin fired back, the crew cheering as smoke belched from one of  the airplanes, which exploded into a meteor of flame. The upper wing tore off and fluttered  away like a leaf. The burning fuselage dropped straight down. 
The other pilot refused to give up and turned for another pass. Buch had to admire  the man's courage. 
The spanner cut into Becker's hand, so he used his coattail to cushion it. He regretted  giving his gloves to the cameraman. The cold was getting to his hands and lack of oxygen  was starting to affect him. He shoved with a maximum effort and the cable snapped into  the groove with a twang, slicing off the tip of his index finger in the process. ``Try it,'' he  shouted. 
The gunner, who had stayed at his post, yelled down to the gondola, ``Try it!'' 
The ballast man pulled the handle down. ``It's free,'' he yelled. 
``Full dump, fore and aft,'' Buch bellowed. 
Both handles came down and water poured from the front and rear spraying the bottom  of the airship with the water­glycol mixture. This seemed to confuse the Camel pilot who  made his pass, but didn't fire his gun. By the time he turned to make another, L 38 had  risen too high to pursue, and was climbing at double the rate the airplane could. His chance  gone and far into German territory the pilot dived for a safer altitude and home. 
Buch lifted the oxygen mask from his face momentarily. ``Secure battle stations,'' he  commanded. The gunners brought their weapons into the zeppelin and closed the windows. 
The topside gunners unlatched themselves from the gun stations and descended into the  interior. The tail gunner secured his gun and came in. 
Without warning the body of the gunner who had helped Becker fell into the gondola. 
His face blue and his breathing shallow. One of the crew strapped a mask to his face and  the man started to gasp and cough. 
``See to Becker,'' Buch shouted to Diehl. 
Diehl grabbed Becker's mask and tank and had the remaining gunner grab Becker's  cold weather gear and followed him. They found Becker curled up in a ball shivering on the  catwalk in much the same condition as the gunner. His suit was covered in blood. 
``Are you shot?'' Diehl asked, as soon as Becker was able to speak. 
``No,'' Becker held up his bleeding finger. ``The damn thing bit me.'' 
A few minutes later Becker, his finger ending in a white gauze ball, Diehl, and the  gunner reentered the control gondola. 
``Bring us to 1500 meters,'' Buch told the man controlling the gas valves. The danger  over, the airship could cruise at a much warmer altitude with plenty of breathable air. 

``Good job, Becker,'' he told the mechanic. ``We need a damage assessment?'' 
``Yes sir,'' Becker said saluting, then turned and climbed back up the ladder to the  main envelope. 
``We seem good here,'' Diehl told the captain quietly. ``The gunner is recovering,  although I think Herr Gussman pissed himself.'' 
Schwartz, on the other hand, had kept the camera running and pointing at the enemy  planes. Buch would have been proud to have a man with such courage assigned to him. 
Buch nodded to Diehl. ``Do a status check, number one.'' 
``All stations report.'' Diehl shouted into the speaking tubes. The check was identical  to that at take off. 
``Helm ready, sir!'' 
``Elevators ready, sir!'' 
``Navigation ready, sir!'' 
``Number one engine ready, sir!'' 
``Number two engine ready, sir!'' 
``Number three engine ready, sir!'' 
Number four engine's speaking tube emitted an ominous silence. 
``Number four engine report,'' Diehl shouted in the tube. Still silence. 
``Number three engine, check on number four,'' Diehl requested. 
``I'll do it,'' Becker's voice came over the tube. 
Diehl resumed checking the other stations. 
``FIRE!'' 
The word exploded throughout the command gondola. The one word that made brave  men's knees turn to jelly. 
``Fire, number four engine pod,'' Becker's trembling voice announced. 
``Full dump, fore and aft ballast, sound fast climb,'' Buch ordered. The rarefied air  would help suppress the fire. 
The ordeal wasn't over yet. 
``Diehl, see what you can do,'' Buch said. 
Diehl saluted and dashed up the ladder. The pod containing engine four hung out the  right side about midway down the ship's length, a small room large enough to house the  motor, supplies such as oil, some tools and two mechanics. The engine's radiator mounted  on the forward bulkhead gave off enough heat so the mechanics rarely had to wear warm  clothes. There was an window on the outboard side for a machine gun to fire through, and  ammunition was stored below it. 
Buch could see black oily smoke pouring from the pod. Small glowing cinders danced  in the smoke. If one of these sparks touched a pocket of hydrogen, the ship would explode. 

``All engines full stop. Number 2 engine half speed. Twenty degrees left rudder,'' Buch  ordered. It was a maneuver called `crabbing' which kept the flames and smoke from the  burning pod away from the body of the zeppelin. 
Diehl ran down the catwalk. Smoke had filled the interior, slowly clearing now thanks  to Buch's maneuver. Becker was already directing fire fighting operations when Diehl arrived. 
Extinguishers were useless, but a hose was run from the aft ballast tank and the men were  trying to shoot water into the radiator and over the skin of the airship so it wouldn't ignite. 
Becker had given strict orders no one was to open the door to the pod. There was no doubt  the crew inside were dead. 
``Diehl here, Captain,'' came the voice from the speaking tube. 
``Report number one,'' Buch spoke quickly removing his mask. 
``We have the fire under control, but Becker believes it will reignite as we descend,'' he  stopped to take a breath of oxygen. ``I agree with him. We should drop the pod.'' 
``How long?'' Buch asked. 
``We should be able to do it in twenty minutes.'' 
Buch looked at the small gauge on his oxygen tank. ``You may want to speed that up. 
It looks like we may have only ten minutes of air left.'' 
Becker gave a flurry of orders. His hands were now swollen and useless. He could only  direct others. 
Krebs arrived with tools and two crewmembers named Mueller and Smidt, the strongest  men aboard. The pod was attached with four large bolts, one on each of the attachment  girders. Becker had Smidt and Mueller remove the nuts from these while Krebs and Diehl  disconnected the cables, wires and hoses running to the pod. Another crewman kept spraying  water on the pod and much of the moisture in the air settled and froze on interior surfaces. 
When the pod was disconnected Mueller took up a sledgehammer to attack the bolts. The  first large bolt popped out easily. The second required Smidt jiggling the joint with a crow  bar. The upper two bolts were hardest. Mueller had to swing a hammer from overhead. 
Suddenly the pod swung out hanging from, and twisting, the upper forward mount. The  fire inside the pod shifted and a blast of hot air, smoke and cinders washed over the men. 
Mueller pounded like a madman. There was no longer any point in trying to drive the bolt  out, the mount had twisted too much. ``Get me an ax,'' Mueller shouted. Diehl grabbed  a fire ax and handed it over to Mueller along with his oxygen tank. Mueller's had to be  near empty from his exertion. Sparks flew as the steel ax cut and smashed the aluminum  girder. There was a loud crack as the pod dropped free. The weight of the engine leaving  the zeppelin caused the airship to jerk skyward violently. 
Mueller dropped the ax and fell forward but caught the girder he had just attacked,  his feet dangling helplessly in the air. Krebs and Smidt grabbed him and pulled him back  aboard. 
Buch watched the pod fall to earth trailing smoke, then fire. 
``Diehl?'' He shouted in the horn. 

Aye, Captain,'' Diehl replied. 
``Get everybody you can to search for stray sparks,'' he said with a sigh. ``We don't  want any more surprises.'' 

Picnic 
The lovers went back to their picnic. Sherry pouted like a little girl when she found ants  had got into her picnic basket before they did. Eric just laughed and brushed the insects  off. ``How could you eat that?'' Sherry squealed. 
``They don't eat much,'' he said, laughing at her squeamishness. ``When I was a kid  we used to have these big black carpenter ants that would eat the insides of an entire tree.'' 
``What's it like in Switzerland?'' she asked. 
He felt flushed for a moment. The ants he was talking about roamed the woods of 
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Did such ants even live in Europe? 
``It's just like Germany,'' he remarked as casually as he could, ``but more up and down.'' 
``It's just, I don't know much about you,'' she said picking up a piece of chicken. Her  hunger having outdistanced her queasiness. ``I don't know about your parents? What it was  like in school? What church do you attend?'' She poked him in the ribs. `` Where you are  ticklish?'' 
He jumped back. ``You're pretty far along in that area.'' 
They finished the meal and she lay down on the blanket, her head in his lap, playing  with a small daisy. 
``Oh, God,'' He ached inside. ``I love her.'' His family had been ruled by rigid traditions  and customs, displays of affection were frowned on. He had never felt this emotion before. 
How much of him was real and how much was taught to him in a training school for  espionage agents? How much of him was Colonel Reynolds, US Army, and how much was 
Eric Dantzler, spy? Where did his loyalty lie? With his country, or with this wonderful  young girl? 
``No,' she said seriously, ''I want to know all about you. I want you to tell me your  deepest, darkest secrets.'' 
He almost did. All the lies, the deceit, the phoniness. He wanted to tell her. He needed  to tell her! He would tell her! 
``Sherry,'' he began, `` I'm not what you think. . . '' He never finished. They heard a  drone from above and the sky darkened as L 38 blotted out the sun. 
Sherry jumped up waving and shouting. ``It's Papa,'' she yelled, ``It's Papa.'' 
Straight away Eric knew the zeppelin was way too low and saw the hole where number  four engine used to be and the dark smoke stains along the belly of the ship. 
``Can we see him land from here?'' She asked. 

PICNIC 137 
There was a promontory overlooking the stream that offered a clear view of the base  even though it was seven kilometers away. ``From there we can,'' he said pointing. 

Limping Home 
``The airship is moored, sir,'' Diehl announced. 
It had not been a pleasant trip. They had dumped too much ballast performing the  two fast climbs. They lost a vast amount of hydrogen and the bags were still perforated by  bullets. Keeping the zeppelin on an even keel had taken every bit of skill Buch could muster. 
To make matters worse, the wind had fought them with series of gusts, causing the ship to  pitch and roll so severely a couple of the crew became seasick. Buch couldn't dampen the  movement, as he had to conserve ballast and gas. The landing had been especially hazardous. 
A gust of wind threatened to lift the tail and smash the gondola into the ground. Only by  releasing gas from the aft bags and dumping the remaining forward ballast prevented a  catastrophe, but as the rear came down it smashed the tail fin into the ground. 
``Have the crew secure the ship,'' Buch said, participating in the post flight ritual. The  crew would clean up their workstations and stow their equipment. The gunners would clean  and oil their weapons. The landing crew would see ropes were coiled and properly hung. 
Engineers would have their engines oiled, wiped down and have all switches and levers in  the right positions. Mechanics would have their tools wiped off and in their boxes. A junior  offcer would visit each station and release the crew. Today this would be done by Ensign 
Fogle, the navigator. 
Gussman was still green around the gills, and when a crewman lowered the boarding  ladder, he practically dived out the door. 
Buch walked to the bank of speaking tubes and addressed the crew. ``Men, today you  have served the Fatherland in the best tradition of the German Navy. I am proud.'' It was  short, but enough. Buch knew the men would be feeling the euphoria of survival. He was  tired to the point of exhaustion, but knew he was too tense to sleep. ``I will see you all at 
Shed Ten later. Drink's are on me.'' 
A cheer rolled though the ship as the tension from the flight evaporated. The two  men roasted alive in the engine pod were temporarily forgotten. They would be remembered  later. 
``Come along, Number One. We have a mountain of reports to fill out while everything's  still fresh,'' Buch said to Diehl. 
``Ensign Fogle,'' he said, saluting the baby­faced young navigator, ``the ship is yours.'' 
Fogle snapped back the salute. ``Aye, Aye, Captain,'' he was grinning at the idea of  his first command. 
``The boy's so happy he almost pooped his diaper,'' Diehl whispered. 

LIMPING HOME 139 
Gussman staggered toward them. ``I want to thank you for. . . '' he hunted for the  words, ``a very interesting trip.'' He bowed his head, ``I'm sorry for. . . '' he began. 
Buch cut him off. ``You have nothing to be sorry for, Herr Gussman,'' He offered the  man his hand. ``You didn't panic and didn't get in the way. I certainly could expect no more  from you.'' 
Gussman pumped his hand, ``If you are ever in Berlin, I know some starlets. . . '' a wink  finished the sentience for him. 
``I hope I'm included in that too,'' Diehl interrupted. 
``Of course, Lieutenant, of course.'' He waved and walked toward his limousine. 
``That man will never fly again,'' Diehl whispered when he was out of earshot. 
``I am sure of it.'' 
Diehl removed his flight helmet and heavy leather overcoat and draped them over his  arm. Buch left his gear on, too tired to remove it. 
There was a flash and Buch felt as if he had been struck by a huge wave of water. He  was hurled violently into the ground, hitting the surface with his head. He lay motionless for  some seconds, not even trying to guess what happened. Slowly, he came to his feet. There  was heat and the smell of sulfur. Dark figures were running everywhere. Everything was  silent, his brain unable to process the cacophony of noise that assailed his ears. Figures ran  towards him, slapping his face and hair and tearing at his clothes. He meekly tried to push  them away. His coat and helmet were ripped off him and the figures appeared to attack  these articles, stamping, as if they were trying to put out a fire. It dawned on him that was  exactly what they were doing. His eyes were filled with tears that clouded his vision. There  was his smoldering coat with its still­burning collar lying on the ground. Knowing what he  would see, he turned slowly, sank to his knees and moaned. 
His airship was gone. In its place lay the flaming remains of some leviathan, its ribs  curving upwards as if picked clean by scavenger birds. Above this carcass hovered a churning,  seething, angry, red­black, cloud. Buch could imagine a demon's face crackling with laughter. 
As his hearing started to return, he could discern the shouting, the rumble of the cloud and a  high pitched squeal coming from the carcass as its girders collapsed. It was as if the zeppelin  was screaming in agony. 
Someone yelled at him. ``Stay right here, Captain. We'll be back in a minute.'' 
He looked to his right and saw Gussman, face black, hair smoking, beating the ground  with his fists screaming, ``My film. My film.'' 
A prone figure lay to his left, it's navy­blue uniform now gray­black. ``Diehl?'' He  reached out to shake him, then realized the gray black was not his uniform at all. He looked  at his hand, at the gray­black and red bits clinging to it. The world receded until only his  hand was in focus then that too became dark, and blackness engulfed him. 

The Blast 
Sherry gasped as they watched the zeppelin explode. Eric muttered, ``Oh my God, '' in 
English, but she didn't notice. The bloated worm that was the zeppelin had suddenly  twisted and shook as a glowing orange black ball disgorged from its side. They could clearly  see the atmospheric distortion caused by the expanding blast bubble as a cloud of dust and  smoke formed above the fire. A few seconds later, they heard the rumble and crackling of the  blast. The cloud had now expanded to cover most of the field, hiding the burning wreckage. 
The initial shock faded and Eric could see Sherry weaken and stagger. Afraid she  would fall down the cliff face, he held her close, feeling her sobs. ``He's dead,'' she cried. 
``You don't know that,'' he said. ``Come, let's go down.'' 
Still stunned, she began to pick up the picnic things while he started the car. ``Forget  that,'' he said. 
He drove fast, but didn't take chances. His mind weighed the effect this event would  have on Sherry and on him. One thing he could not deny: Buch's death would solve his  problems. Volant might die with him. 
On the other hand, Eric liked Buch and did not wish him dead or hurt. He would play  it as it happened, there was no other choice. 
There was another eyewitness to the disaster who was not on the base. Reinhold 
Darhower was in his tower watching through his binoculars, confirming the L 38's arrival,  when he saw the blast. Knowing it was Buch's ship, and having orders to treat any informa­  tion concerning him as top priority, he descended into his offce to write and code a message. 
There was enough daylight left for a bird to make the delivery. He selected the strongest  bird, attached the message capsule, climbed back, and released it. He saw the bird circle the  tower and head for England. 
Eric and Sherry were stopped at the gate and was told by the guard no one was allowed  to enter. ``Fraulien,'' he said softly, ``there is nothing you can do.'' He looked at Eric. ``I'll  leave a message for Major Goldberg. You can wait in the guard shack.'' 
It would be the longest two hours of Sherry's life. Four fire engines from Elmsdorf sped  by, as did a number of horse­drawn ambulances. They saw the Security Chief's Mercedes  approaching. He was a sight, covered with soot. Goldberg had been working at his desk  when he thought he heard thunder. Told of the disaster, he had the base sealed and ordered  it to remain so until sabotage was ruled out. Rushing to the field he found dead and injured  laying on the field and although the base fire fighting apparatus and ambulance units were  busy, nothing was coordinated. As no one was in charge, he directed rescue and fire­fighting  operations. Grabenski was sent back to security headquarters to get a field telephone run 

THE BLAST 141  out to the site. When Gerber arrived, he simple let Goldberg continue coordinating the  activities. In two hours the fire was controlled and the victims removed. 
He stepped down from the car. ``Fraulien Buch,'' he said with a bow, ``your father has  been injured, but is doing well.'' 
She gave a sob and collapsed into Eric's arms. ``Can she see him?'' Eric asked. 
``Of course,'' Goldberg replied, ``he's in the base hospital. You know the way?'' 
Goldberg told the guard, ``If anyone else asks to enter the base, tell them no. Tell them  the casualty list will be posted in the morning.'' 
When the little bell chimed, marking the arrival of a carrier pigeon from Europe, the  capsule was removed from its leg by 81 year old Charlie Bowman, the bird handler. He  handed the message to his son, Captain William Bowman, who was serving in the Signal 
Corps. Charlie would check the bird for injury and make sure it was fed and watered. 
Tomorrow it would be put in the common coup and before the week ended would be on its  way back to an agent on the Continent. 
The message was deciphered, typed and handed to Corporal Logan who delivered it  to the Offcer of the Day, Major O'Toole. On an envelope he wrote the address of the  intelligence agency in London who was interested in such information. He thought about  the impact the information could have on the war, shrugged, and wrote `Unclassified'. 
``Do the public good to know they have one less of these beasts,'' he remarked. ``Don't  you think?'' 
Logan took the original message and the envelope, saluted. ``Yes sir. It'd be good for  morale,'' he replied with a smile. 
Back at his desk, he jotted down a few notes before sealing the document in the  envelope and put it in the out box with the rest of the correspondence. Then he dialed the  phone. 
``Wilson, Logan here,'' the corporal chirped, ``I have a little tidbit for you.'' 
When he hung up the phone he thought for a second. Not only did he do exactly what  the Major wanted, but the reporter, Wilson, would pay him a few pounds for beer money. 
As they sat on a hard wooden bench in the hospital, Sherry and Eric witnessed a  parade of horror, as men burned and blistered walked or were carried past them. Could her  father be horribly disfigured? It was hours before an exhausted doctor appeared. 
He was surprised to see civilians not in medical garb of some kind. ``May I help you?''  he managed to say. 
``I'm here with Captain Buch's daughter,'' Eric whispered softly, as if afraid someone  would hear. 
The doctor sighed. ``Fraulien Buch, your father will be all right. He's suffering from  minor burns and a slight concussion. We have him sedated.'' 
``Can I see him?'' 

THE BLAST 142 
``Of course,'' The doctor answered, pleased to be in the presence of a beautiful girl in  the midst of so much horror and death. ``You can stay in the room with him, if you like.'' 
He motioned for a nurse. ``You know,'' he said kindly, ``it is lucky he didn't remove his  leather coat or helmet. That's what saved him. Lieutenant Diehl had removed his and he  didn't survive.'' 

Spy 
It had been twenty­four hours since the zeppelin exploded. Goldberg stepped out of the 
Mercedes and approached the smoldering ruins. The fire apparatus spent most of the night  and part of the morning, pouring water on the debris. Firemen stood by to spray hot spots  caused by the wind that threatened to release sparks. One of the firemen was holding a steel  rod over the hot coals, cooking a sausage jammed onto the end. 
The heat on his face was inappropriately pleasant as Goldberg stared at the wreckage. 
He doubted seriously if anyone could determine the cause given the extent of the damage. 
Even though he had not ruled out sabotage, he had to put the base back on a normal footing. 
But now, something else bothered him. Sergeant Grabenski walked up and stood beside him. 
``Do you read English, Sergeant?'' Goldberg asked. 
``No, sir,'' came the reply, ``I have enough problems with German and Polish.'' 
Goldberg removed a copy of that morning's London Times from under his arm. It had  been printed during the night and distributed in the wee hours of the morning. Some traveled  by fast trains to channel ports where swift packet boats transported them to Amsterdam, 
Paris, Madrid and other cities on the continent. Of course, German embassies in neutral  countries purchased copies and shipped them to Germany in special message packets. 
The issue Goldberg carried had been sent him by Army intelligence in Munich and  delivered only an hour earlier. He opened it, his eyes finding a small article near the bottom  of the page. He translated the article into German as he read aloud: 
German Zeppelin Crashes. 
The Imperial Naval zeppelin L 38 has met its well­deserved fate. The zeppelin  burst into flames as it attempted to land at the Elmsdorf zeppelin base, west of 
Cologne, after returning from a mission. The British people can only cheer at the  demise of yet another of these monsters. It can only be hoped that the Germans  will see the attacking of unprotected civilians as a heinous and barbarous act and  curtail these activities.'' 
``Not very well written,'' Grabenski said. 
``How did they know?'' Goldberg folded the newspaper. 
``I know what you mean, sir,'' Grabenski said. ``We closed the base up tighter than a  clam.'' 
``The only people who got through were the fire and ambulance crews,'' Goldberg said, 
``and of course, Fraulien Buch and that fellow Dantzler. The only ones who left were some of 

SPY 144  the ambulance people.'' He looked around the horizon. ``Somehow I don't think they were  the ones.'' His voice trailed off as he looked at the steeples and towers of the town. 
``Do you think we are being watched, sir?'' Grabenski asked softly. 
Goldberg just nodded. 
``What do we do about it?'' 
``We watch back.'' 

In Hospital 
Buch was flying majestically. He couldn't see the ground or the sky, just blue and soft,  fluffy, cool, clouds. He felt contented and peaceful. Then the clouds caught fire, and the sky  turned red and terror gripped him. 
He was at the helm, turning and twisting the ship to avoid the clouds that rushed at  him trailing flame and smoke. He could smell sulfur, fuel and burning flesh. The clouds  were like comets as they roared by. Flames began to snake down the walls, curling around  his crew. Their flesh began to melt like candle wax, and drip onto the floor, making glowing  splashes. The smiles were still on their faces as their glowing skulls were revealed. He  screamed as the flames began to eat his hands. Then the deck was gone and he was falling  into the white­hot pit of a volcano. 
It was early in the morning when Buch finally opened his eyes, not sure whether he  had woken from a nightmare, or into one. He had a splitting headache and a sharp pain at  the back of his neck. It was like a very bad hangover. From the color of the room and the  pungent hospital odor, he guessed he was not at home. There was something else he should  remember, something important, but he would be damned if he could think what it was. 
He saw his wife's face hovering over him. ``No,'' he thought, ``that's not right.'' His brain  struggled to give a name to the face. ``Sherry? My daughter?'' 
What was it he was supposed to remember? It had something to do with the dream. 
``My ship?'' he croaked through a dry mouth, his tongue swollen. 
Sherry embraced her father. He could almost feel strength flow from her. A nurse  brought a small glass and a straw. And the room started to come into focus. There was a  young man standing with Sherry. What was his name? Rich? Eric? That's it, Eric. 
``My ship?'' he asked again. 
``It's gone, Captain,'' Eric said. 
Buch simply nodded. The floodgates of his memory burst and his brain was flooded  with remembrance. Yet there were things he did not know. 
``Diehl?'' he asked. 
Eric gave a quick shake of his head. Buch nodded slowly. He felt a painful constriction  in his throat; he wanted to cry. 
The doctor came in the room and after blinding him with a little flashlight, announced 
Buch would be fine in a few days, after he got some rest. Buch knew he was wrong. He  would never be fine, not really. 
``Eric,'' he said, ``please take Sherry home.'' 

IN HOSPITAL 146 
Sherry had not wanted to leave and it took all the persuasion of Eric and the doctor  to convince her she needed rest as well as her father. Eric had mixed emotions about Buch's  survival and was angry with himself for feeling that way. 
Hanna was near panic and Eric had to admit, he had overlooked her in the last two  days. When Sherry and her father had failed to return home Saturday, Hanna had called  the base, and learned of the tragedy. 
Eric prepared to return to Elmsdorf, but Sherry stopped him. ``Don't leave me,'' she  sobbed. ``I don't want to be alone.'' 
Later she crawled into his bed, her naked flesh tight against his. They made love. Not  hot passionate love, as before, but warm and slow. 
When he was sure she was asleep, Eric quietly got out of bed and pulled on his pants  and shirt. Using the keys Gari had given him, he opened the door to Buch's study, pulled  a flashlight from his pocket and began to look around. He quietly searched the room and  found a telegram open on the desk that stated simply: ``Meteorology reports late September,  early October, most favorable. Plan accordingly.'' Behind a picture on the wall he found  the safe. Again he tried the keys that Gari gave him. The safe opened with a clunk that  was too loud in the silence. Eric waited motionless. Thinking he heard someone he closed it  again and peered out. Then silently he ascended the stairs and sneaked back into his room. 
``Where have you been?'' Sherry whispered. 
A rush of fear. It took all of his self­control to be calm. 
``I had to go potty,'' he whispered back. 
``Why are you dressed?'' she asked sleepily. 
``It wouldn't do for your aunt to catch me wandering the halls butt naked,'' he said,  getting under the covers. 
``Oh,'' she said, snuggling close and putting her arm across his chest. He hoped she  wouldn't notice the pounding of his heart. 
On the third day of Buch's recovery he had an unexpected visitor. 
``Sir?'' came a familiar voice. 
``Becker?'' Buch voice was genuinely filled with joy. ``Becker, I thought you were. . . ,''  he didn't finish the sentence. 
Becker approached the bed, his right arm tucked in a sling. 
``No, sir,'' he said, ``I ain't dead yet. I was in the tail looking at the damage when  she blew. The tail was already weak and just torn off. Flew about 100 meters with me and 
Vogelsong in it. I sprained my wrist and Vogey didn't even get a headache.'' 
Buch was glad to see him. ``Tell me what happened,'' he said, ``They won't tell me  anything.'' 
Becker looked downtrodden. ``Well, she blew, sir,'' he began. ``Took nineteen of the  crew with her and that cameraman. I liked him. He was a nice fellow.'' 

IN HOSPITAL 147 
``Out of the entire crew only Vogey and myself escaped relatively okay. Krebs and 
Winkler were badly burnt and machinist mate, Mueller. . . '' Even the tough non­com choked  up as the memory of Mueller swinging the ax like a madman appeared, ``Mueller had both  arms amputated.'' 
Buch saw the effect telling the story was having on the chief. 
``We lost twelve ground crewmen too and 20 seriously injured.'' 
``Any idea how it happened?'' 
``Well, sir,'' Becker said scratching his head, ``Any evidence went up in flames, but I  have my own idea. I think an ember from the fire lodged somewhere. As long as we moved  forward the wind wouldn't let it to grow into a full­fledged fire. But when we stopped. . . ,'' 
``That sound's like as good an explanation as any,'' Buch said. 
``It's too bad about the Lieutenant,'' Becker remarked. ``If only he hadn't taken off his  coat. . . '' 
Buch had spent hours thinking about that. If Diehl hadn't taken off his coat. If the  cable hadn't snagged. If the Flying Circus hadn't wasted fuel fooling around. . . . 
``If the dog hadn't stopped to pee, he'd have caught the rabbit,'' Buch said. 
``It was fate, destiny.'' 
``Guess you can't beat fate,'' Becker murmured. 
``No,'' Buch thought, ``but I'm going to fight the bitch, tooth and nail.'' 

O'Shea 
The chauffeur­driven Packard double­parked outside the shabby brownstone building on 
South Tremont Street, Boston, Massachusetts. 
Ignoring honking horns and curses vehemently thrown at him, the chauffeur circled the  car and opened the rear passenger door, allowing a well­dressed, matronly woman to exit. 
The building could be described as a place for professionals on their way up, or those on  their way down. She consulted a directory in the lobby and its black cardboard rectangles  with gold lettering, bearing titles of doctors, attorneys, and insurance agents. Towards the  bottom, instead of a black and gold piece of cardboard, was a page from a tablet with  the handwritten words: `Chester O'Shea, Consulting Detective, 6th floor, Suite 209'. The  woman went to the elevator and woke the dozing, ancient black man who was its operator. 
Chester O'Shea had crossed the line into middle age, his waistline thickening and his  hair thinning. He ate too much, drank too much, smoked too much and swallowed copious  amounts of evil­tasting coffee. His shingle as a private detective had gone up only recently. 
Chet had been a policeman until he was caught drunk on the job. He did a stint with the 
Pinkerton Agency until he was seen dipping into the assets he had been hired to protect. 
Said asset named Gloria, wife of shipping magnate Amos McCoy. He started his private  detective agency to fight off poverty, and it almost won. He'd begun by placing an ad in the  paper that read: 
O'Shea Detective Agency 
Help in legal and civil cases 
Lost relatives and loved ones found 
Law enforcement and legal agencies.Unquestionable reputation with all 
Law enforcement and legal agencies. 
At least the last part was correct. His reputation among lawmen truly unquestionable. 
He was unquestionably dishonest, sleazy and untrustworthy. 
He had become aware that many immigrants had lost touch with friends and relatives  who also came to America and vanished into the vastness of the country. He charged anything  from ten to a thousand dollars for one of these cases, depending on the client's ability to pay. 
He didn't guarantee success, but he would give it all the energy he could muster. These cases  were usually solved by simply expediency of writing the missing person a letter addressed to 

O'SHEA 149  their last address and seeing where the post offce forwarded it. If the new address was not  in the records, Chet could still say he had tried. For high rollers O'Shea had, like Sherlock 
Holmes, his squad of irregulars. College kids who needed a few extra bucks and didn't mind  spending hours perusing libraries, legal records and old newspapers. Finding missing persons  wouldn't make him wealthy, but it kept the wolves from the door. 
Chet O'Shea was startled by the knock. He had been sitting back in his chair checking  his eyelids for holes. He hadn't had a client in a week and he was getting bored. The business  seemed to flow between feast and famine, so this was not unusual, but he could see the ribs  on his bank account. It was time for some business. ``Come in,'' he yelled. 
As soon as he saw the woman he rose quickly to greet her. Her clothes were well made  and fashionable, and her presence told she was comfortable with money. O'Shea figured she  must have been quite a looker twenty years ago. 
``Hello,'' he said, presenting, what he hoped, was his best boyish grin. ``Chester O'Shea, 
Ma'am, what can I do for you? 
``Patricia Frieman,'' was all she offered. 
He directed her to sit in the armchair while he took his position behind his desk. It  was hard not to notice her wedding band and accompanying diamond next to it. 
``I understand you find people,'' she began. 
He nodded, ``I have had some success in that area.'' 
``My son is fighting in France,'' she continued, ``and wrote to me that he had borrowed  a considerable sum from a classmate of his. If, God forbid, the worst should happen, he  wants to leave this world with a clear conscious. He requested I pay his debt, but I can't  find the individual.'' 
``Yes,'' O'Shea said smiling, ``I understand.'' 
He was thinking: ``What a crock of shit.'' 
``The boy's name is Eric Dantzler, Swiss I believe. He graduated from M.I.T. in 1912  or 13,'' she said, as he wrote the information down. 
``Have you contacted the school?'' He asked innocently. 
``I would rather remain anonymous in this matter.'' 
``Of course,'' O'Shea said smiling, ``I understand.'' 
He was thinking: ``Boyfriend; maybe blackmailer; long­lost illegitimate son, that sort  of thing.'' 
``I'll do what I can,'' he said, holding his hands out and shrugging, ``there may be some  international complications. I'm afraid the fee may be quite high.'' 
Hell, he figured, she might be good for five hundred, maybe even seven fifty. 
``Would five thousand be enough?'' 
Chet O'Shea had seen and heard it all --- except that. He just nodded. 
She wrote out a check. ``A thousand now and the balance when I get my report.'' 

O'SHEA 150 
She rose to go: ``And again, I can count on your complete confidentiality.'' 
``Yes, ma'am,'' he said also rising, ``next to me a clam will be downright gabby.'' 
She handed him a small calling card with her name and address on it. 
``Contact me as soon as you find out anything,'' she said, as she walked toward the  door. 
O'Shea stood with the card in one hand and the check in the other. ``Don't worry,''  he said. ``If this guy is on the planet, I'll find him.'' 
The buzzer went off indicating a customer entered the used­book store that had been  a pub during the American Revolution. Bob Reed sat behind the counter on a tall bar  stool reading an earthy book by Balzac entitled `Collected Droll Stories'. The blond haired,  pimply­faced kid did this job part time, trying to pay his way to a master's degree in  engineering. He was going to get a job after receiving his bachelor's degree, but America  entered the war and he felt continuing his education was the better part of valor. 
He looked up, hoping to see a young coed, but it was only Chet O'Shea, no doubt to  hit him up for some research. That's good, the work was easy and he could use the money. 
``Hi, Chet. What's up?'' 
``Drop everything,'' O'Shea said, ``I need to know the whereabouts of an ex M.I.T.  student named Eric Dantzler.'' 
``How much?'' 
``I'm willing to go as high as twenty bucks,'' Chet O'Shea offered. 
``A hundred,'' Bob said confidently. 
He just laughed, ``One look at the gleam in your eyes and I figure you either just got  laid, or paid. I guess the latter.'' 
``Damn,'' O'Shea grumbled as he counted out five twenties, ``You're going to put me  in the poor house.'' 
Bob took the five bills, folded them and stuffed them in his pocket. ``The joint, ''he  said. 
`What about the joint?'' 
``Eric Dantzler,'' Bob continued, ``he's in the joint for murder. I remember it. I was a  senior in high school, but I was gonna go to M.I.T. So I read about it.'' 
``You son of a bitch,'' O'Shea snarled. ``You took that money under false pretenses.'' 
``Yeah. Want it back?'' 
``Yeah.'' 
``Screw you.'' 
O'Shea waited for two weeks before contacting Mrs. Frieman. He wanted to make sure  his facts were straight and besides, he didn't want the client to think it was too easy. 
``What have you got for me?'' she asked. 

O'SHEA 151 
``I'm afraid I have some bad news for you,'' he said, trying to be diplomatic. ``Eric 
Dantzler is in Massachusetts State Prison awaiting execution for murder.'' 
The woman seemed totally unaffected by the information. ``When is he scheduled to  be die?'' she asked coolly. 
``That's a bit of a problem,'' O'Shea said scratching his head. ``Although the papers are  very explicit concerning the case, all legal records seem to have vanished. He was supposed  to have been executed in March of 1915, but he is very much alive.'' 
``Are you absolutely sure this is him?'' she asked roughly. 
``Yes ma'am,'' O'Shea answered somewhat embarrassed. ``My cousin Jimmy is in the  same cell block.'' 

Leave 
A week later, Buch was allowed to leave the hospital provided that he spent at least a week  at home, resting. The doctor was not really worried about Buch's physical condition, but  he was under considerable mental strain. 
Dantzler had managed to talk Shultz into letting him take the big Styer staff car. It  squatted outside the hospital like a large black reptile. Buch sat next to his sister Hanna and  was surprised when, instead of Eric getting behind the wheel, Sherry got into the driver's  seat. 
Except for a jerky start and an occasional grinding of gears, his daughter drove quite  well. He sat back and was startled when Hanna took his hand in hers. He gave hers a gentle  squeeze, hoping in this way to show her he still loved her, even though they had grown apart  over the years. 
When Hanna had heard of the tragedy, she had wept openly. She found she loved her  brother deeply. He had protected her and helped her. In spite of being outwardly cold to  her, he was her anchor in life. She was very afraid of losing him. 
Buch looked at the two lovers in the front seat for it was obvious that's what they  were. He wondered idly what he should do if he caught them together. Act the outraged  father. No, not a chance, he would demand the two young people marry at once. He would  never do to Sherry what his father had done to Hanna. He was yet to realize the reason he  was moving closer to his sister was that his daughter was moving further from him. 
His mind went back to the explosion. . . he had missed the funerals and the memorial  services and regretted that, especially Diehl's. He had made a decision during his stay in  the hospital. Until now Volant was Strasser's baby, but no more. He would move heaven  and earth to see the war ended. If he had pushed his idea in the first place, it would have  been over years ago, and he would not make that mistake again. 
At the house, he asked to sit in his rocking chair on the porch and smoke his pipe. 
Hanna brought him a cup of hot chocolate and they sat for a while and talked. It had been  a long time since they had done that. Later she went in the house to help Frau Kohler with  supper. 
``It's good to be alive,'' he thought. He felt no guilt at having survived. He had been  a soldier too long and knew there was no rhyme or reason to death. It happened, and if  it didn't happen to you, it was a good thing. Still, he regretted the deaths of his crewmen  and had brief bouts of `if I had done this or that,' but he found no fault of his own. It was  simply bad luck. 
Eric and Sherry appeared from around the corner of the house. Both looked grim and 
determined. ``Here it comes,'' he thought. 
``Captain Buch, sir,'' Eric stumbled. 
``Sir?'' thought Buch. ``This is serious.'' 
``I am respectfully asking for your daughter's hand in marriage.'' 
He looked at the young couple and remembered a time (was it so long ago?), when he  went through the same ritual. He and his bride had faced an unknown future and now he  was alone, to recall the past. 
``Her hand? I'm sure there are other bits you're interested in,'' Buch said smiling. It  was exactly what his father­in­law had said to him so long ago, and he, like Eric, had turned  scarlet. ``Of course,'' Buch said. ``Welcome to the family.'' 
Sherry threw her arms around him as Eric pumped his hand, promising to be the best  son­in­law possible. ``If it doesn't work out,'' Buch proclaimed, ``I can always claim brain  damage.'' 
That evening as Eric drove back to Elmsdorf alone. He parked near a small bridge  that crossed a tiny brook. He sat in the grass next to the brook watching the tiny fish and  the water skimmers. He covered his face in his hands and groaned, ``What have I done?'' 
That night he wrote a long letter to his Aunt Gari: 
Dearest Auntie, 
I have asked Fraulien Buch for her hand and she has said yes, etc. etc. 
In invisible ink he wrote: 
I can no longer with a clear conscience perform the tasks assigned me. I am sorry  for the disappointment this will cause, but I feel it is the best course of action  for all of us. 
Please consider this letter as my formal resignation. 
Eric Dantzler 
He quickly realized his mistake and crossed out the name replacing it with `Lawrence 
Reynolds'. 

Gurta Krouse 
Sydney Black felt this was one of the best days of his life. No more ugly yellow room, no  more Krouse and his disgusting ways. Krouse was on the bed weeping, looking at the two 
Manila envelopes on his lap. ``That them?'' Sydney asked. 
``Yes,'' Krouse sobbed, ``Buch's original plan and Operation Volant.'' 
Black tossed the envelope he was carrying on the bed. ``I'd burn those as soon as  possible.'' 
``Are these the only prints and negatives?'' Krouse asked suspiciously. 
``Of course,'' Sydney said flippantly. 
Sydney was telling the truth. This source was too unstable to contact again and he  surely didn't want the photos found by anyone else. And he certainly wasn't keeping them  as a reminder. 
``I must have the documents back by tomorrow morning,'' Krouse begged, ``before  anyone knows they are gone.'' 
``Stay right here,'' Sydney replied, ``I'll be back before dawn.'' 
``Sydney,'' Krouse asked softly, ``do you love me? A little bit?'' 
Sydney paused at the door and looked back. Krouse's feelings toward him must be  much like his feelings for Ammi. He had a pang of sympathy, even compassion. For a  second. . . 
``Frankly, man,'' he said, ``you disgust me.'' 
Krouse sat on the bed contemplating his life. Sydney could not understand his feelings. 
It wasn't just sex. He loved him as deeply as any man could love a woman. Had that love  been returned, even a little, he would have done anything for him. ``You disgust me'' kept  echoing in his head. 
Krouse never understood why he was as he was. His first love had been a professor at  college who had invited him home for extra study. At first he was frightened at the man's  touch, he was nineteen at the time. The professor was thirty­five. 
``You're one of us,'' the professor had murmured as he caressed him. ``We can always  tell.'' 
Krouse was surprised at that. Later he found you could tell, but you could never  explain why. He was ashamed of what he was. Someday the world might mature enough to  accept him, but not now, not in 1918. 
He spread the pictures Sydney brought him on the bed, and was aroused at the mem­  ories they evoked. Then he went to the briefcase he used to carry the documents, opened 

GURTA KROUSE 155  it carefully and removed a letter in which his father, expressed how proud he was of him. 
Beside it, he put a family portrait. He walked to the full­length mirror on the back of the  door and saw that his uniform was properly buttoned and his hair combed. Then he took  out a Luger 9mm pistol and returned to the mirror. He stood ramrod straight, the very  image of a proud German offcer, he put the barrel of the pistol in his mouth. The sexual  imagery didn't escape him. 
He almost lost his nerve. He almost changed his mind. He almost didn't pull the  trigger. 
Almost. 
The mood at La Baroness had subtly changed as far as Sydney was concerned. Ammi  still gave him orders, but her tone was different. None of the girls could put their finger  on exactly what was the problem. She seemed to have become afraid of him. For her part, 
Ammi watched him like a hawk and had easily picked up the liaison with the Swede. 
She now realized she was no longer the mistress of her fate, and angry over how she  had been used. She watched as he came in the front door and went to his basement without  speaking. 
Sydney carried Krouse's documents and made sure the doors were bolted. Satisfied  that he was secure, he spread the contents of the first folder entitled, Buch's Plan, on the  table and began to photograph them, running his eyes through the text as he did so. 
After photographing them, he started to develop the negatives so the film could be  placed in the cigar tube. He loaded up another roll of film. He wanted to have a backup  in case the original got lost. He would not develop this roll just now. Finishing that, he  loaded another roll of film and prepared to start photographing the second folder, entitled 
`Volant'. By this time the first series of photographs were complete. He carefully wrapped  it and placed it in the cigar tube. 
Before he began photographing the `Volant' documents he quickly scanned its contents. 
``Oh, my God,'' he whispered. ``Oh, my God.'' 
The shutter was clicking when there was a knock on the door and Sharon's voice. 
``Sydney,'' she called, ``you're on in a minute.'' 
``Damn.'' Since the offenses began in March, any break had disappeared. He could  have demanded tonight off, but felt it was probably better if he didn't. Besides it was only  an hour. Up the stairs he grabbed his bowler hat and was ready when Ammi announced, 
``Here is our own. . . Sydney.'' 
He jumped on stage and said, ``I `s gonna play my harmonica,'' in very bad German,  which the crowd loved, and started into ``The Camptown Races.'' 
``Nasty business,'' Police Sergeant Hummer told the Army Major named Hartman. 
``Who found the body?'' 
``The landlady was eating supper when blood started to drip from the ceiling into her  soup. A neighbor heard her screaming. The old girl is still hysterical and of no use.'' 

GURTA KROUSE 156 
They entered the dirty building. A policeman stood guard outside. 
As they climbed the narrow staircase, Hummer continued, ``As soon as I saw he was  an Army offcer and the peculiar aspects of the case, I called you.'' 
Gurta Krouse lay across the bed crosswise, arms outstretched and legs crossed as if  crucified. He looked asleep and only by walking around the foot of the bed could you see  the back of his head was gone. There was a puddle of blood on the floor next to the pistol. 
``Looks like suicide,'' Hartmann remarked as a matter of fact. ``Did you see a note?'' 
Hummer simply pointed to one of the pictures next to the body. ``I don't think a note  was necessary,'' he said. 
Hartmann glanced at the picture and just nodded. 
``I think we should talk to this other fellow,'' Hummer said, carefully lifting one of the  blood­soaked pictures. ``Shouldn't be hard to find. How many black men can there be in 
Berlin.'' 
Hartmann wrinkled his brow, ``Let me see that,'' he said. 
As Sydney finished his act, he put on a huge grin and bowed repeatedly. He was pelted  with coins he dutifully bent over to pick up and put in his hat, saying, ``Thank you, thank  you.'' He looked at the mass of drunken, horny soldiers, waving and yelling. He grinned even  though he was thinking: ``Look at these bastards tossing a penny to the trained monkey.'' 
On an impulse, he took the hat filled with coins, and tossed them back at the crowd, as if  he were emptying a bucket. 
He stepped down from the stage. ``Now this crap's done,'' he said to himself, ``I've got  to get back to work.'' 
Sharon stepped up to him: ``Ammi wants to see you in the foyer.'' She had to shout  over the sound of the crowd. He started to worry. Ammi was talking to a group of policemen  and Army offcers. 
``Yes ma'am,'' he said as he approached her keeping his voice subservient. 
``These men would like to talk to you,'' she said smiling, but the smile was forced. 
``What do you know about these?'' The skinny army major who seemed in charge,  asked. He did not bother to introduce himself but removed a stained picture from a manila  envelope. Of course he recognized the shot but he had been very careful his face never  appeared. 
``I'se don' know nofin `bout that stuff,'' he declared, appearing shocked. 
``You are a photographer, are you not?'' The major asked. 
``Yas'r,'' Sydney replied meekly, ``I's takes pictures.'' 
``Dirty pictures?'' The major added. ``Men and women together?'' 
``Yas'r,'' Sydney replied submissively. ``Sometimes.'' 
``I think we will have to search your quarters,'' the major said. 
Sydney was sunk and he knew it. The documents were still lying right out in the open. 

GURTA KROUSE 157 
``Oh lord, Miss' Ammi,'' he begged, hoping she could swing some authority. ``Don't let  them in my room. You promised nobody can go to my room `cepting I asks them to. You  promised.'' 
He kept begging, appearing desperate and Ammi appeared to try to calm him. ``He's  very fussy about his room, you see,'' she explained to Major Hartmann. ``If you could give  him a little time to calm down.'' 
Hummer intervened. ``I am sorry Fraulien,'' the little policeman said. He turned to a  policeman standing behind Sydney. ``I think it best you handcuff that fellow.'' 
``We will want to talk to all the girls.'' Hummer said to Ammi. 
``My girls, why?'' 
``I would think it would be obvious,'' the policeman said. ``Blackmail takes brains,'' he  said pointing his thumb at Sydney, ``This dumb nigger could never have thought of it.'' 
Inside on Sydney Blackman something snapped. He stood up straight, holding his  head high, his posture telling all he was neither stupid nor subservient. He wrenched his  arm from the policeman and lashed out, hitting Hummer's nose with the base of his hand  moving upward. There was a sickening crunch as the septum broke and was driven into the  brain. Hummer was dead as his body fell. 
Everyone was stunned by his action. Sydney took the opportunity to dash for the front  door. It would have taken too long to open it, so he curled himself into a ball and crashed  through the stained glass, scattering the police and soldiers outside. He ran across the street  as fast as he could and down an alley but tripped, falling hard. He tried to stand and found  his left leg wouldn't support him. Looking down he saw the blood spurting from a wound,  a bullet had passed through the muscle, but he felt no pain. 
``Don't shoot,'' Major Hartmann shouted, as he ran out. ``I want him alive.'' 
Sydney was confident he knew his way in the rabbit warren maze of alleys and side  streets near La Baroness. But it looked different in the dark and his leg was starting to  hurt. He had an escape plan of sorts, which was to make his way to either the Swedish or 
Brazilian embassies and seek asylum. He might have to stay there until the end of the war,  but that couldn't be helped. He wasn't exactly inconspicuous and would find no shelter  or comfort from the Germans. The alleys were filled with hot stale air and the stench of  garbage. He changed his path to avoid a growling dog, but the alley he chose turned out  to be a cul de sac. He could hear the approaching police. The wound was starting to hurt  as he removed the silk scarf he wore around his neck and tied it tightly around his leg. It  slowed the bleeding, but did not stop it. He sat back trying to catch his breath and think. 
He did not want to die, but he had no illusions about the humanity of German intelligence  agents. He felt they would really want him to talk. He began to think about Ammi, this  would bring a lot of trouble on her and he hadn't wanted that. He regretted he never told  her how he felt about her. 
``Damn, boy,'' he muttered, ``you gotta think about getting out of this.'' 
He heard the police at the entrance to the alley. ``Do you think he's down here?'' 

GURTA KROUSE 158 
``No,'' Sydney yelled in perfect German, ``The nigger isn't down here.'' 
``That you, Hans?'' 
``Yah!'' 
The police moved off, leaving the alley in silence. Sydney heard the sound of the  searchers recede in the distance. The pain in his leg was now almost unbearable. He had  lost a lot of blood and was starting to weaken. He knew he had to get to safety and a  doctor's care, or he would soon pass out. The alley was in total darkness. He began to walk  slowly holding his arms in front of him like a blind man. Suddenly, he was blinded by a  dozen flashlights. He could see no people, just bright lights like small suns, ``Put up your  hands,'' a voice shouted. Sydney could see the street and the red trail of blood that lead into  the alley were he had hidden. He started to put up his hands, then dived a hand into his  coat. The small suns were joined by small exploding comets and a roar. The bullets ripped  into his body, throwing him backwards. He felt no pain, just a feeling of unusual peace. His  outstretched hand was still grasping the harmonica he took from his pocket. As the bright  lights began to fade, he muttered, in English, ``Hell of a thing for a Philadelphia lawyer.'' 
Then he died. 
The foyer of La Baroness was a study in confusion. Ammi had to think fast to try  to save her world from disaster. ``Go get me the keys to the basement,'' she whispered to 
Sharon, ``Hurry.'' 
She ran and brought the keys. Ammi unlocked the door. ``If anyone comes near the  door, knock loudly,'' she instructed Sharon. 
Her eyes quickly surveying the area, she saw the camera and the documents and the  exposed film hanging to dry. There was the small cigar tube. She picked it up and examined  it, seeing the film inside. On instinct, she put the cap on the tube and, lifting her skirt, hid  it where she hoped the police would be too gentlemanly to look. 
As she hurried up the stairs and rejoined the crowd in the foyer, she whispered to 
Sharon, ``Say nothing.'' 
Hummer's body was gone and most of the clientele had vanished, before Major Hart­  mann returned. He looked at Ammi. ``He's dead,'' he said curtly. 
She thought she should have felt. . . .something. 

Friedrichshafen 
The locomotive's headlight pierced the gloom as the train crawled southeast. Its pace was  slow because it was heading towards a battle zone and had to move off into sidings to let  more important trains rush to the war. It was going to Innsbruck in Austria, with stops  on the way that included Friedrichshafen, the destination of the passengers in the third car  from the rear. 
Buch stared out the window at the passing scenery, lulled into half sleep by the rhyth­  mic beat of the wheels. It had been two weeks since the airship explosion, and a week since  he returned to duty. The new zeppelins were ready. Across from him sat Chief Becker,  snoring softly and little Gustav Vogelsong, reading a book through thick glasses. The rest of  the car was filled with Gerber's crew, who would now take over the new LZ 100. Strasser was  naming the remainder of the LZ 99's airmen from various squadrons, as well as supplying  new ground crew members. He had suggested Gerber's crew lead the mission with Buch in  command, but Buch preferred to train a new crew than try to lead a crew trained by another  captain. 
The men in the car groaned as the squealing of brakes and the clanging of the loco­  motive's bells signaled the train was in for another delay. As it came to a halt and the  temperature began to rise in the poorly ventilated car. It was a good ten minutes before the  train that had forced them to stop came slowly into view, puffng like a fat man climbing  a long flight of stairs. As it passed, they got a whiff of hot oil, steam and smoke, which  cleared quickly. Buch found himself staring at a long row of faces framed by the windows  of a passing troop train. It was like a portrait gallery painted by some demented artist  portraying different people in the same style. All the faces were different. Some round, some  thin, some young, some old, some bearded, some clean shaven, some swarthy, some pale, a  melange of humanity. Yet they were amazingly similar. Numb vacant stares transmitted an  overwhelming sense of weariness to the observer, not exhaustion, but rather the expressions  of men who had seen too much, done too much, felt too much. This was the true face of  the warrior. Then they were gone and Buch was left blinking into the dark. The whistle  moaned in the night, and with a lot of noise and a jerk, the men in the railroad car headed  for their own war. 
Eric lay on his bed staring blankly at the dingy white ceiling, in his hand a sweet  smelling, crumpled piece of paper on which were some sharp and bitter words that filled him  with guilt and shame. The letter had come that afternoon and the flamboyant writing on  the envelope showed it was from Gari Klopsic. Inside was filled with prose about the latest  fashions, functions and gossip of the high and mighty of German society. Eric quickly went  to the special writing set and with a damp cloth used the liquid to reveal its hidden words. 

There was no salutation: 
``I warned you about thinking with your prick instead of your brain and this  proves it. I did not forward your message to higher levels. To do so would prove  fatal. As you seem to have forgotten, let me remind you that you are an American 
Army offcer and at war. You have no more right to resign than do the men who  must face bullets everyday. Perhaps you think your situation is different. It is  not. 
After the war I don't care if you marry this girl and have a hundred kids, but  now you are a soldier and you must do your job. So stop being a fool and do it! 
I have your letter in a safe place, for now. If I see no results from you soon, I  will be forced to forward it. We will speak no more of this.'' 
She was right, of course. He was a colonel and fast approaching thirty, yet he was  acting like some moonstruck teenager. 
He felt like hell but deep inside he was glad the decision had been taken from him. He  would do what he had to do. 
At Friedrichshafen, Buch met his new crew and his new first offcer, and said a few  uninspired words to them. They were much like any other group except for an underlying  current of defiance, a sullen reservation. His new first offcer was a young lieutenant named 
Willhem Ricman. He was short, barely 5 feet 5 inches in height and stocky, with over­  long arms. The men called him `the troll' behind his back. He wore a neatly trimmed  goatee but his most disconcerting facial characteristic was the scar tissue on its upper right  quadrant. Buch's first impression was of a below­average offcer of average intelligence. He  was pleasantly surprised to be wrong on both counts. 
Buch and his crew were also introduced to the LZ 99. It was an impressive sight. 
Slightly larger than Strasser's flagship the L 70, which had been the most advanced zeppelin  built at the time. It was longer and radiated menace. Buch smiled at the large LZ 99 written  on the nose in gothic letters. It was a ruse, of course. Naval zeppelins were classified with an 
L followed by the number of its procurement, hence L 70 was the seventieth airship bought  by the navy. The factory used a production number, LZ (Luft­Zeppelin) followed by the  number of zeppelins built. The German army used this number to identify their zeppelins. 
However, this too was a lie in this case. The real LZ 99 was already in naval service as L 68. 
All of these machinations were designed to fool and confuse the allies. 
Colonel Ziegler and his Army crew had been at Friedrichshafen a week for extensive  orientation aboard LZ 101. Its flight characteristics were unlike those of the Shuttse­Lang  they were used to flying. Buch and his crew would also attend classes to know their new  ship, but as all of the Navy men had been flying Zeppelin products, the changes for them  were easier. Buch concentrated on learning something about the personalities and skills of  his new crew. Ricman seemed a very private individual, not as outgoing and friendly as 
Diehl. He decided to ask the offcers to a night on the town and got Becker to do the same  with the enlisted men, giving him the marks to pay for it. 

Ziegler did not join them, which allowed Buch to talk to his offcers unhindered. 
The restaurant was just outside the airship plant and used the Zeppelin motif through­  out its d’ecor. Buch knew the offcers under Gerber's command who would crew LZ 100, but  barely knew his own, or those in the Army crew. Although the atmosphere was relaxed and  cordial, he was watching and listening closely to everything that was said and done. 
``How do you like your new ship?'' Gerber asked the Army's first offcer. 
``Wonderful,'' he replied with the others nodding in assent. ``It's like a destroyer com­  pared to our old scow.'' He took another swig of beer and wiped his hand across his mustache. 
``If I were captain, what I could do with such a craft.'' The others gave a cheer. 
``If he were captain?'' Buch was thinking. ``What does the present captain lack?'' 
``Did you get that in combat?'' one of the Army offcers asked Ricman indicating his  scars. 
He simply nodded, but soon realized he would have to tell the story. ``Last November,''  he began, ``L 22 left Nordholz to try to bomb docks in Glasgow. Trip out was fine. Sun  shining, gentle headwind, not a cloud in the sky. We came up on the Scottish coast just as  the sun was setting. Then all hell broke loose. The wind turned into a gale, and we started  to be pelted with freezing rain and snow. We dumped ballast still heading west, looking for 
Glasgow. We couldn't have seen the ground if it glowed like a light bulb.'' Bitterness entered  his voice, ``The captain tried to figure the course by radio triangulation, but there was too  much static. So he tried dead reckoning, which was impossible due to the wind. He kept us  headed west. Ice started to form on the envelope and propeller blades. Number three prop  threw a huge chunk of ice that tore through the envelope and number five gas bag like a rock  through a window. We were down to less than a thousand meters altitude and could hear  the waves crashing on the shore. We had pushed west as hard as we could and only traveled  forward a few kilometers. Finally the captain ordered the bombs dropped just to lighten  the ship and yelled that we should come about 180 degrees. When we started to turn, the  wind caught the nose and spun the ship around like a kid kicking a bottle. Everybody was  tossed head over heels and we could hear the frame buckle. Ice clogged number four engine's  radiator and the damn thing overheated and froze solid. The prop on number one was way  out of balance, which caused the control car to bounce up and down. We were down to  less then 200 meters above the sea by this time. We dumped the remainder of ballast and  started throwing everything we could over the side, fuel, guns, fire extinguishers. We made  a last call to base, then tossed the radio overboard. We had managed to get to about 400  meters when number four prop started to throw ice like a machine gun. Number eight bag  was shredded, and we started to drop by the stern. To say we were flying would be a joke. 
We were a leaf in the wind. The control surfaces were useless. It was all we could do to keep  her head pointed east. We dropped a flare and could see the whitecaps less than a hundred  meters below. Still we fell. 
The sun was starting to rise, although we couldn't see it. The gray just got brighter. 
The tail smacked into the water, but we managed to keep the nose up at a thirty­degree  angle and number one engine running. Like a bloated water bug, the zeppelin dragged its  body across the water. Somebody yelled they could see land. Then a giant fist shoved the 
control car into the sea and the gray fog was replaced with a green one. The crew panicked  when the water rushed in, but someone had the presence of mind to open the hatch. That's  how I got out. The envelope was on top of us and I thought my lungs would burst.'' 
He tapped the scar tissue, ``The surface was covered with burning fuel. I don't re­  member much, they found me on the beach. Face and arm like this, and two toes frozen  off.'' 
The table grew silent. ``I remember that,'' Buck remarked, ``Commander Offet died  in the crash.'' 
``Good thing, too,'' Ricman said, while viciously tearing a black rye bun in two, ``or 
I'd have killed the son­of­a­bitch.'' 
The next day Buch asked Becker about his impression of the men. ``They're good,'' 
Becker told him, ``lots of experience, but. . . '' His voice faded. 
``Go on,'' Buch insisted. 
``Well, sir. They seem --- angry.'' 
``To be frank, Captain,'' Ricman told him later: ``You didn't get the cream. They've  an attitude problem, and their commanders were glad to be rid of them.'' 
``Does that include you?'' Buck asked abruptly. 
``Yes, I'm afraid it does.'' 
At the end of the week, crews boarded their ships for a shakedown cruise. Buch  scheduled Ziegler's ship to fly first, as his crew had been at Friedrichshafen the longest, with 
Gerber next. He would fly last. As the time drew near, Buch found he was looking for  reasons to postpone it; the crew needed more training, an engine running rough. His ship  was still on the ground three days after LZ 100 had been flown and accepted. Buch had an  uneasy feeling he could not identify, could not face. 
On the fourth day LZ 99 was pulled out of the shed and onto the field. As the car  carrying Buch neared the ship he began to feel a queasiness in his stomach. As he stood  beside the control gondola, his nausea was so bad it took every fiber of his being to avoid  puking his guts out in full view of the crew. His hands shook on the boarding ladder and  once aboard he had to keep them deep in his pockets so the men wouldn't see them. 
He saw his condition reflected in their eyes. Fear. Sheer, undeniable terror. The crew  could smell it. 
``Captain?'' Ricman said softly. 
Buch looked around. The crew was awaiting his orders. ``Up ship,'' he croaked through  a dry mouth. ``Come to fifty meters.'' He closed his eyes tight as the ground dropped away. 
His hands flew out of his pockets and clutched the rail under the port window, and he tasted  blood and bile as he fought to keep from vomiting by biting the inside of this lower lip. He  ordered weakly: ``All ahead three quarters.'' 
The next two hours were hell for him. He took the ship above 6000 meters to test the  new oxygen converters. Breathing the pure gas helped settle his stomach and his nerves. 

He brought LZ 99 down to a very mediocre landing, ordered the ship secured and left the  bridge. 
``I'll meet you later for debrief,'' he told Ricman. ``I may have a touch of the flu.'' 
Back at his quarters, he ran for the bathroom and heaved long after his stomach  emptied itself. Finally, he made it to the bed and drank deeply from a bottle of cognac. He  lay back, feeling the warmth of the liquid flow through him. His clothes were wringing wet  with sweat, and his hands hurt from grasping the guardrail so tightly. He had come close to  panic in the airship. His fear was greater the first time he had risen high above the earth. 
But the primal fear of leaving the ground was secondary to his other, greater, fear. The  terror of losing control of himself. . . . 
The cognac started to take effect. He changed his clothes and headed for the debrief. 
Ricman and Becker had finished the list of discrepancies found during the flight. Buch read  it over and nodded approval. 
``Captain,'' Ricman said as they left the room, suppressing a grimace as he smelled the  alcohol on Buch's breath, ``perhaps you should see the flight surgeon.'' 
``Yes,'' Buch replied, ``I think you're right.'' 
The fight surgeon went along with Buch's suggestion of the flu and prescribed a cough  medicine heavily laced with codeine, even though Buch had not complained of coughing. 
``It probably wouldn't be a good idea to fly?'' Buch queried. 
``Yes,'' the doctor repeated as if he thought up the idea, ``you should take a few days  off, if that's not a problem?'' 
``No. It won't be a problem at all.'' 

Jasta 27 
Ammi Orleans was in the dingy offce of Colonel Francis Strauch, Major Hartmann's superior  offcer and now in charge of the case. ``One would think,'' Ammi mused to herself, ``the head  of the security for Berlin and all of eastern Germany would have a better offce.'' Actually  it was large enough, but was crammed with folders, papers, boxes and bags. The Colonel  was almost buried behind the desk with his bald head bent over a sheet of paper. 
``In view of your co­operation,'' he was saying, ``and sterling endorsements from some  individuals,'' his eyes glanced up like a preacher addressing a sinner,`` You have been exon­  erated of the crime of espionage.'' 
Ammi sighed in relief. The last two weeks had been awful. The La Baroness had  been closed, guards not permitting anyone in or out. The police questioned everyone and  then quizzed them again. She had told them what she knew about Sydney's activities, and 
Douglas Adams, who set her up in the first place. She was careful not to talk about the 
Swedish man, or the contents of the cigar tube. 
Strauch's tinny voice continued, ``As you seem to provide a valuable `service' to the  war effort.'' He shook his head as if to stress these were not his words, ``You will be allowed  to continue your `business'.'' 
``However,'' the tone of the tinny voice changed, ``as the establishment formerly known  as the La Baron Hotel was purchased by a foreign power for the purpose of conducting illegal  activities, namely espionage, said establishment is forfeit and becomes the property of the 
German government. You may continue to operate there, paying rent of course, until such  time as the property is sold.'' 
She left the offce of Colonel Strauch and went back to work, even hiring a young, blind 
German boy, to play piano, who was good, but no Sydney Black. 
The fact the German government now owned the premises disturbed Ammi most. She  could be shut down at any time, which was not a pleasant thought and although she had  a fortune stashed away in Switzerland, she could not hope to purchase the building herself. 
She weighed quitting the business completely, but knew she enjoyed it too much. 
So it was that the next time the Swede visited, it was Ammi, not the dead Sydney,  who offered him a cigar, which he nonchalantly placed in his pocket. 
Later when he opened the tube there was a small piece of yellow paper on which Ammi  had written, ``You want it? I have it.'' 
Major Goldberg stared into the sky until his eyes found three distant dots that could  have been ducks. He could hear a drone as they took the shape of airplanes, seven to each  group. Within minutes they were flying majestically over the airfield. The first two fights 

JASTA 27 165  were new Fokker D­VII's, angular, aggressive and considered the best fighter plane to come  out of the war. The last group was made up of five Fokker DR­1 triplanes, which had gained  fame as the mount of the Red Baron, and two more were Albatross two­seaters. The pilots  were gauged wind strength and direction from a smoke grenade their leader tossed out, Then  they fell as if heading for destruction, only to flatten out and touch down as softly as birds. 
The air was filled with the roar of twenty­one high­powered engines and the exhaust  smell of burnt gasoline and castor oil. The roar faded to silence as each cut ignition, the  propellers sputtered to a halt, and ground crewmen chocked the tires. 
Goldberg was standing with a group of dignitaries that included Captain Stouffer, the  acting base commander, the mayor of Elmsdorf, and a small brass band. The pilots lined up  in front of them. They were as proud and self­confident a group as Goldberg had seen. A  tall blond man with an oil­splattered Charlie Chaplain mustache marched over to Stouffer,  saluted and said, ``Jasta 27 reporting for duty, sir. Major Andre Ladouceur commanding.'' 
The band played, speeches and introductions were made then the squadron's men and  planes were shown their quarters. It was two days later that Goldberg got to talk to the  squadron commander, who now had a little offce in a dark corner of the hangar. 
``Goldberg, uh?'' Ladouceur asked, as they shook hands. ``Jewish?'' Goldberg glared. 
``Don't worry, Major,'' Ladouceur laughed, ``I take a lot of crap for my name too.'' 
``Well it is bit --- froggish,'' Goldberg shot back in retaliation. 
``Touch’e', sir,'' Ladouceur said, while rummaging around in a box. ``My family lives  in the Ruhr valley. We've been kicked back and forth between the Germans and French for  generations. We tend to support the one with lowest taxes,'' 
``Ah ha,'' he yelled, finding what he was looking for, ``would you care for a drink?'' 
He held out a bottle. ``I haven't any glasses,'' he said, popping the cork and taking a  swig. ``Doesn't bother me, if it doesn't worry you.'' 
Goldberg took the bottle and drank. The liquid tasted like anise­flavored lava that  burned the belly. ``What the hell is that?'' he managed to gasp. 
``Ouzo,'' Ladouceur answered, ``Greek. Hard to come by, but I like it.'' 
Goldberg decided he'd better take care of business fast. 
``What do you need in the way of security?'' he asked. 
``Towers, tall ones,'' Ladouceur answered without hesitation, ``and people to man them. 
We have to know the enemy is attacking in order to intercept. I'll have patrols up, but we  need as much warning as possible.'' 
The bottle went back and forth until the world became a bit hazy. 
``See a lot of action?'' Goldberg articulated carefully. 
``We're a brand new unit made up of old farts.'' 
None of them were over 30. 

JASTA 27 166 
``In our profession twenty­five is an old fart,'' Ladouceur explained. ``Most of these have  seen a lot of action and, frankly, their nerves are shot.'' He swallowed another mouthful. 
``Mine too.'' 
Eric realized the only way he could rid himself from the responsibilities of duty was to  perform them. He practiced setting up the camera. He could do it in less than two minutes,  time was running out. Buch was due back in a few days. 
His amorous life with Sherry had become routine. After supper they would walk and  often talk to the Kohlers and Hanna. They would go to bed in separate rooms, and after a  delicious hour of waiting, she would sneak in. They never had a nocturnal rendezvous when 
Buch was in the house. 
One night after Sherry left his room, Eric lay staring at the ceiling. After an hour,  he dressed and, slipping the camera case on his shoulders, went downstairs. He quickly and  quietly picked the lock to Buch's study. He had his flashlight and set up the camera as he  was taught, when he heard a noise. His heart was freezing as someone turned the handle  to the study, then stopped. He put his ear to the door, and hearing nothing began to walk  around the living room toward the stairs. 
``There you are!'' came a voice from the kitchen. Thinking fast, he stumbled into the  couch and slid the camera case behind it. 
``Jesus, you scared me,'' he told Sherry angrily, as she came out. 
``I thought I heard a noise in the study,'' she said in an accusing tone, looking at him  strangely. 
``So did I,'' he said. ``I came down to see.'' 
This mollified her. A brave man would face danger alone. 
``I think it was a cat,'' he said quietly. He put his hand in her hair and leaned close. 
``You know, seeing as we are both awake. . . '' 
``You're incorrigible,'' she said taking his hand and leading him upstairs. 
Watchtowers would take weeks to erect and be a hazard to the zeppelins. An observa­  tion balloon would be an effective alternative, but even that would take time to organize. A  private who overheard the major discussing the problem with Grabenski offered a solution. 
``Sir, we often climb to the top of the zeppelin sheds just for fun,'' he offered..'' 
So, Goldberg had a small building, barely four feet square, constructed on top of each  zeppelin hangar. To the casual eye they appeared to be ventilators. In these he could post  men to watch for attacking aircraft --- and watch the town. 
He still fancied an early­warning system, and when the solution finally hit him, he  laughed aloud. 

Coming Home 
It was early June and the sky was overcast as Buch's ship circled the field at Elmsdorf. There  had been much grumbling among the ground crews who, after weeks of inactivity, were now  called on to give maximum performance handling the new craft. 
The flight had been routine and even comfortable to Buch, thanks to a dose of the  codeine­laced cough syrup much more generous than the doctor recommended for the cap­  tain. 
A breeze caught the ship and spun it around before Buch realized this was the first time  this crew had landed at Elmsdorf. His old crew would have compensated for that breeze, as  it was customary at this location. Sorry, gentlemen,`` Buch called out. ''My fault.'' 
His hands still tightly gripped the rail, but he talked the crew through the landing  procedure, and gave the order to drop lines and stop engines. He noticed the yellow Bearcat  driving across the airfield and made out his daughter in the passenger seat. Firmly on the  ground, he turned command over to Ricman. 
He strolled in the direction of the car, pausing to say to the N.C.O. in charge of the  ground crew. ``Give them tomorrow off. They deserve it.'' 
Sherry ran towards him. ``Papa,'' she shouted, as she threw her arms around him. Her  feel and smell flowed over Buch, erasing the strain of the last few weeks. ``God,'' he thought, 
``It's good to be home.'' 
The sight of the new zeppelin, amazed Eric Dantzler. He had not witnessed the earlier  arrivals of LZ 100 and 101. This ship was almost 700 feet long. It was sleek, lean and  seemed to radiate aggression. Workmen had enlarged the shed to accommodate it. ``God,''  he shouted out, ``what a beast.'' 
``Yes,'' Buch shouted back, ``it is that.'' 
Later Buch was in Shed Ten, drinking, eating and having a wonderful time. Mariah  nestled against him. His new crew and the soldiers of LZ 101 were vying with each other and  veteran Elmsdorf crews, as to who could drink the most beer, and pinch the most waitresses. 
Ziegler was there, acting almost human. The zeppelin stein was presented to him and the  tradition explained. Buch leaned over, ``We always lose and buy a drink for the house,'' he  whispered, ``The lads like that.'' 
Ziegler faced the picture of Count Zeppelin. ``To the count,'' he shouted. Everyone  enjoined: ``To the count.'' 
When he turned the stein upside down not a drop poured out. There was a groan from  the crowd. The stein was given to a waitress who was told by Buch to refill it. When it was  returned, Buch stood and shouted, ``To the count.'' 

COMING HOME 168 
Again glasses were raised and it looked as if Buch had also emptied the stein, but when  he held it upside down, a golden drop on the rim fell to the floor. 
``Looks like I lost,'' he said with a shrug. The crowd cheered. 
Becker stood. ``To Commander von Buch, the best damn zeppelin captain in the 
Navy,'' he said raising his glass. 
Only for a moment, less than a second, there was silence, but it was more painful to 
Buch than at any moment in his life. Ricman leaped to the rescue. ``To Captain Buch,'' he  shouted. The crowd joined in the toast, half­heartedly. 
The facade of a smile stayed on his face, but inside Buch hurt badly. Even those  veterans who he had known for years had voted ``no confidence.'' How long would it be  before he lost confidence in himself? Perhaps already. 
Gertrude Biddlehafner was the perfect name for a schoolteacher. It evoked images of  a skinny schoolteacher with her gray hair in a bun and spectacles perched on her nose. This  image could not be further from the truth. Barely 25 years old and a hair less than five feet  tall, she was, in a word, gorgeous. She taught in a one room rural school that took children  from kindergarten to graduation that was typical of those found all over the western world. 
Her 23 students ranged in age from 6 to 18. This might be a problem for one so young, but 
Gertrude ably maintained discipline. The boys were totally in love with her, and the girls  idealized her. 
Today her students were meeting a real­life hero. Gertrude thought the one­armed  major charming and handsome. 
Goldberg introduced himself to the class and told how he lost his arm. Since he started  to speak to schoolchildren in the area, this was the first question they asked. The story of  saber­wielding Cossacks kept them glued to his every word. Then he disclosed his mission. 
``Sergeant Grabenski,'' he began, pointing to the gnarled non­com, ``will pass out a  small pamphlet. These pamphlets contain pictures of Allied, as well as German, airplanes. 
We are interested in the Allied planes, of course. If you see any aircraft that match these  descriptions, contact your teacher, policeman or any other responsible adult and follow the  directions on the back to contact us. Show them the type of aircraft and note the direction  it is going.'' 
``This is not a foolish game. You will be serving our Fatherland and saving lives. So  take this task very seriously.'' 
He could see by their attitude, they would do just that, like the other thousand or so  children to whom he'd made the same speech in the past few days. He thanked them, bowed  and clicked his heels to their teacher and left the schoolhouse. Grabenski started the car  and got behind the wheel. 
``Sir,'' he said, ``Did the Russian cut off more than your arm.'' 
``What do you mean, Sergeant?'' 
``Well, If a woman looked at me like that. . . .'' 

COMING HOME 169 
Goldberg sat silent for a moment, then got out, walked across the schoolyard and spoke  to the teacher. Even from a distance, Grabenski could see by the woman's smile she was  in agreement with whatever Goldberg said. As the school was left behind, Goldberg said: 
``Sometimes, Sergeant, you piss me off.'' 
``Yes, sir,'' the sergeant replied, suppressing a laugh. 
``I'll need the car Saturday,'' the major said, answering the un­asked question. 
``Hey, Mohne,'' Dantzler called across the hangar to the maintenance chief, ``how's the  ship?'' 
LZ 99 filled the hangar from end to end, and side to side, it was a tight fit. 
Mohne waved to Eric as he walked across the floor under its huge curved belly. ``She's  a thoroughbred,'' the noncom told him, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. ``Let me  show you, but don't trip over a guard. Goldberg has them all over the place.'' 
They walked to the ladder that led to the control gondola. A tall guard approached  carrying a clipboard and a nightstick. Guns were forbidden in the hangar. ``Excuse me,'' he  asked, ``is this gentleman authorized access?'' 
Mohne scratched his beard. ``Check your list for Eric Dantzler,'' the chief told him. 
He looked at his clipboard. ``Do you have identification?'' 
``I'll vouch for him,'' the chief said with a touch of annoyance. 
``It's okay, chief,'' Dantzler said opening his billfold and holding out his ID card. 
The guard looked at it, nodded and said, ``You will need an offcial badge to work here. 
Get one as soon as you can.'' 
``All this damn security,'' Mohne grumbled, ``I have to ask permission to scratch my  backside.'' 
He opened the door between the control and engine sections at the rear of the gondola. 
They quietly entered as if it were a chapel and might disturb the power residing here. The  air smelled of clean oil, antifreeze and newly cast metal --- perfume to both. Mohne lovingly  caressed the left engine that stood almost as high as him. ``Maybach AMX 343s,'' he crooned, 
``two hundred eighty five horsepower on the ground, a hundred ninety at 5000 meters.'' 
This gondola housed two engines driving a single propeller, as did the aft gondola. 
Two pods containing a single engine each were mounted a third along the main walkway. 
The big airship had six engines for its four propellers. 
They climbed one of the ladders into the main envelope. If the engine room was like  a chapel, this was a cathedral. Huge bags of gas floated overhead, while the surface skin let  in a subdued light. The catwalk curved away out of sight towards the bow where a set of  stairs went up to the mooring station in the nose. The cave­like interior smelled of rubber  and aircraft dope. They turned toward the stern of the ship. Mohne pointed to one of the  giant support bulkheads giving the zeppelin its circular shape. There were fewer than in the  older ships. ``I don't know how this thing would handle a storm.'' 
``What are they going to do with this ship?'' Eric waved generally at the entire vessel. 

COMING HOME 170 
Like the rest of the personnel, he'd been warned against speculating about their pur­  pose, but many still did. 
``Damned, if I know,'' Mohne said. ``This is a weird one. Come on.'' 
Mohne lead the way as they continued to the rear of the craft. As they came to  the center, the catwalk split above, two holes in the envelope, one about ten­feet by thirty  followed by a monster 20 feet wide and 50 feet long. The large hole had two giant shackles  mounted on an overhead beam. 
``What do you think they're going to hook there?'' Mohne asked. 
``I can't even guess,'' Eric answered. 
``Come on,'' Mohne beckoned conspiratorially. ``There's something I want to show you. 
It has nothing to do with this or the engines.'' 
Dantzler followed him all the way to the ship's rear below the fin assembly and up to  the tail gunner's position. 
``Look at this,'' Mohne said, removing a cover from the weapon mounted there. 
A soft whistle escaped from Eric's lips. It was the largest machine gun he had ever  seen. 
``Twenty millimeter,'' Mohn explained, ``shoots a hundred­and­twenty rounds a minute  at twice the range of our present guns. There are two more mounted on top.'' 
He covered it up again. ``I don't know what they're doing, or where they're going,'' 
Mohne said. ``But they are definitely expecting trouble.'' 
``Please, Major,'' Colonel Ziegler said courteously, ``have a seat.'' 
Goldberg was wary. He had met Ziegler, but had not conversed with him. 
``Cup of tea? Coffee? Perhaps some schnapps?'' the colonel asked. 
``Coffee's fine,'' Goldberg replied. The Colonel rose, went to the door and told his  adjutant to get two cups of coffee. 
The colonel's offce was in a corner of Shed 6 and his airship floated nearby. 
``I understand you are doing background checks on all the new men,'' Ziegler made a  steeple of his fingers. 
``As head of security, that task has fallen upon me, on Captain Buch's order, of course.'' 
He leaned forward, ``Is there a problem?'' 
``Oh, no,'' Ziegler replied quickly. ``I think it is a good procedure. I would have  recommended it myself. I suppose I too come under scrutiny?'' 
``I'm afraid so,'' Goldberg answered. 
``Fine, fine,'' the colonel said, ``I have no argument with that, I assure you.'' 
The door opened as the adjutant brought the coffee. Goldberg sipped the hot liquid  still wondering where the conversation was going. 
``Are you checking Captain Buch?'' The Colonel said quietly. 

COMING HOME 171 
The question took Goldberg by surprise. He had not even considered investigating the  commander. The very thought seemed to border on insubordination. 
Ziegler continued: ``Do you know his men call him `No­balls Buch' behind his back  and on the last few flights he has practically had to pry his hands off the safety rails. I have  seen a marked difference in his personality. Surely you have noticed?'' 
Goldberg sipped his coffee. He had to admit the Colonel was correct. 
Ziegler pressed on: ``I'm sure you have known men, good men, who have cracked under  the pressure of combat. This mission is simply too important to the war, and to Germany,  to take chances.'' 
Goldberg placed his cup on the desk and sat as straight as he could. ``Captain Buch is  my commanding offcer,'' he announced, ``I will not perform any actions that interfere with  my loyalty.'' 
```Your loyalty is to Germany,'' the Colonel said. ``I trust you will do your duty.'' 

Mariah 
The locomotive puffed loudly as it shunted the four flatcars and a boxcar in to the Elmsdorf  siding. Their cargo was so big it had nearly grazed passing trains. The flatcars had caused  headaches among German railroad offcials who had to determine clearances through the  overpasses. Two small freight depots and four bridges had to be demolished so that the load  could pass. A special siding had been built at Elmsdorf that jutted out into the landing  field and the five cars were being moved there. The base had its own small railroad, with  an electric locomotive, since the hot cinders from a steam engine's smokestack were hardly  welcome, But for now all the zeppelins were housed safely in their hangars, as a precaution. 
Eric walked towards the cars as nonchalantly as he could, curious as to their contents,  and was relieved to find he was not the only one there. Security troops were out in force  keeping onlookers a hundred yards from the railroad cars. These tanks would fit perfectly  in the holes in the belly of the zeppelin. If he looked close, he thought he could discern the  outline of the fittings for the shackles under the canvas. 
That night in the privacy of his room, he jotted down all he had learned so far on  his special paper. At two in the morning, he thrust the paper into a candle flame where it  instantly became ash. It wasn't until he was shaving that all the pieces came together in his  mind. ``By God,'' he said aloud, ``I think I have it!'' 
It was not an event to be missed by the brothers Darhower. Reinhold watched the  train through his field glasses. 
``First three flatcars are carrying large cylindrical objects approximately 10--15 feet wide, 
40--50 feet long covered in green canvas. Fourth flatcar contains a rectangular object (or  objects) also covered in canvas. Boxcar is a standard munitions boxcar. Suspect items are  hydrogen storage tanks to be mounted at the gas works.'' 
Later this message would be coded and sent to England where it would be read and  filed away, and forgotten. 
The investigation of Buch was going smoothly. Each new member of the crews was  brought in and this included the men of LZ 99. Interviews of offcers were conducted by 
Goldberg exclusively. When questioned about Buch, most would be noncommittal like: ``A  competent offcer, I suppose.'' None praised him. 
On the other hand, interviews of enlisted personnel began with Goldberg and Graben­  ski. Midway through the Major would leave and the sergeant would engage the men in  gossip. ``I hear Buch is a piece of work,'' he would say casually pouring the man a cup of  coffee. 
Some of them avoided the bait. Others did not. ``Old `No Balls' shits himself every 
time we go up,'' or ``I dread going into combat with that man.'' Sometimes: ``Thank God  for Ricman. He knows how to lead.'' 
The probe pained Goldberg deeply, he felt dirty, betraying a man he considered a  friend. Driven by duty, he decided to talk to Mariah Periot, but bringing the woman to the  base would have caused rumors that he would rather avoid. He got Elmsdorf's chief of police  to pick her up and drive her downtown to the police station. She was told she was not in  trouble, but would be helping authorities in a routine matter --- essentially the truth. 
She was surprised to find Goldberg in the room. He was surprised by her appearance. 
As a student, he had been with prostitutes. The attractive young woman before him was  dressed in a very conservative fashion and acted very demurely. The thought struck him  that if he didn't know her profession, he would never have guessed. . . She reminded him of 
Gertrude Biddlehafner, a thought he quickly put aside. 
``Let me just jot down a few notes,'' he told her, getting out a tablet of yellow paper. 
``Your name is Mariah Poirot?'' 
She nodded. 
``And you are from?'' 
``Belgium,'' she said softly, ``Brussels.'' 
``And what is the number on your passport?'' 
At this question she blushed. It was clear to Goldberg she never went through any of  the formalities. Her presence in Germany was illegal. 
``I understand,'' he said quickly. ``You don't have it with you. No matter.'' 
He gave her what he hoped was a disarming smile. She seemed to relax. 
He asked about her job. ``I'm a hostess in the establishment.'' She never blinked an  eye at the word. 
He made a point of putting the tablet and pencil down and to the side where they  would not be needed. 
He sat back. ``I am conducting a routine check on the men of the base and I just want  some of their off­duty activities.'' Again he smiled. ``You'll think I'm a terrible snoop, but 
I'm following Captain Buch's orders.'' 
Her attitude changed. Otto must have told the Major to talk to her because he could  trust her and knew she would help. For the next hour they discussed various crewmen. Who  were violent? Didn't pay their bills? Made defeatist remarks? He found her intelligent and  charming, and could easily see why Buch liked her. She relaxed and finally asked for a cup  of tea. 
``I can see why Captain Buch speaks so highly of you.'' 
He watched her and he thought to himself, ``This girl is madly in love with him.'' 
He pushed his chair closer so they could not be overheard, even though there was no  one present. 

``I need to become personal,'' he said. ``Please do not be offended.'' 
``There is an offcer who is spreading a rumor that Buch has some rather, shall we say,  odd habits.'' 
She was shocked. ``Captain Buch is one of the finest gentlemen. . . .'' 
``I agree, '' Goldberg said, ``completely. But you know how it is. Rumors spread and  fall on the wrong ears.'' He shrugged, ``He does seem to favor you.'' 
``Well whoever is spreading these rumors is a lair,'' she pouted, ``most of the time we  don't even,'' she hesitated, ``make love. He just lies in my arms and cries.'' 
``Cries?'' 
``Yes,'' she said defensively, ``he lies in my arms and weeps. He is under a tremendous  strain and needs the comfort of a woman.'' She looked at him with her lower lip trembling. 
``Surely there is no harm in that?'' 
He stood up and bowed. ``Fraulien, I thank you. You have been a great help.'' 
She stood and he helped her to the door, ``It would probably be best for all if you  were discrete about our conversation. Especially where the Captain is concerned.'' He gave  a little wink. 
After she was gone he sat at the table and put his head in his hands. ``My God,'' he  thought, ``weeps in her arms.'' If there had been any bizarre perversions, his superiors might  frown, and look upon him with distaste, but it would be acceptable. Hiring a woman so he  could cry in the night was too, too much. Sergeant Grabenski opened the door. ``Shall I get  the car, sir?'' 
``Yes,'' Goldberg said looking up, ``and see if you can find some schnapps. No, vodka! 
I need to get very drunk, very fast.'' 
At the end of May, Ludendorff sent armies south toward the Marne, Paris, and a  little village named Chateau­Thierry. Victory seemed assured. The Germans were met by  the first concentration of American forces. Too inexperienced to be scared, the Americans  fought with vigor and persistence. His nose bloodied, Ludendorff canceled his offensive on 
June 4. The Americans counterattacked, pushing the Germans out of positions at Vaux, 
Bouresches, and Belleau Wood. Five days later, the Germans advanced again, this time on 
Compiegne, but met stiff resistance from both French and American troops. By June 12 the  advance had ground to a halt. The Germans retreated, licking their wounds. Ludendorff  had to rethink his plans for the future. 

Test Flight 
La Baroness had become a gloomy place, not only because of the death of Sydney Black,  but German soldiers were increasingly morose, and now talked of peace, not victory. 
Ammi still had her financial woes. Several entrepreneurs had expressed interest in a  partnership, but most wanted control. There had been some interest in restoring the building  as a hotel, but these negotiations fell through. The government appointed an accountant to  oversee the `proper' operation of the business. Ammi found the bald little man insufferable  and his suggestions ludicrous. He wanted to put timers next to the beds and for the girls to  fill out a very detailed form for each client. 
On the afternoon of June 15th he announced a potential buyer would be arriving within  the hour. Part of the agreement to keep running her business was that she had to escort  potential buyers through the building. 
She was surprised when Werner Snipe entered with an attractive woman only slightly  older than herself. ``Frau Ammi Orleans,'' he said, through his best hyena smile, ``may I  present Countess Adelgard Klopsic. The baroness is interested in acquiring these premises  as an investment.'' The accountant added quickly, ``Her husband is Count Herman Klopsic.'' 
Ammi thought, ``Of course, you silly man. How many Count Klopsics do you think  there are?'' 
``How is the Count?'' Ammi asked the woman, indicating she had met him, which she  had. 
``Not as spry as he used to be. But then, you would know that.'' 
``Feisty bitch,'' thought Ammi. 
Snipe had almost turned purple. ``Werner darling,'' the woman said, ``could you be a  dear and let us women talk.'' 
His mouth moved like a dying fish for a moment, then he gave in. ``Of course.'' 
After Snipe left the room, she turned to Ammi. ``An insufferable little man,'' she  remarked. 
Ammi's impression of the woman started to swing to the plus. ``What can I do for  you?'' she asked. 
``Gari,'' the woman answered with a smile, ``please call me Gari.'' 
She became suddenly serious. ``We do have a mutual friend, other than my husband,''  she said, ``Douglas Adams.'' 
It was Ammi's turn to be shocked. She had almost given up on being contacted. 

TEST 176 
``You said you have something for us.'' 
``How do I know I can trust you?'' Ammi asked. 
``How do I know I can trust you?'' Gari answered with a shrug. ``In truth, we have  been observing you.'' 
Ammi opened the top drawer of her desk and removed a small envelope that had taped  to the underneath. This she handed over. 
``A small sample,'' she said, ``the cover page and the table of contents. You get the  rest when we agree on a price.'' 
Gari glanced at the negatives. ``How do you know they're worth anything?'' 
``I know three men died because of them.'' 
``Do you have both documents?'' 
``No, only one.'' 
``Which one?'' 
``I don't know. I have never looked.'' 
Gari stood up to leave. ``I will have to check with. . . .others on the value of this  property.'' 
Gari put out her hand, but the grip lingered. There was a look that Ammi easily  translated. ``If you had a free hour. . . ?'' she began. 
``I have the hour,'' Ammi said, as she leaned closer and kissed Gari softly on the mouth, 
``But I am not free.'' 
Gari felt her mission was both fruitful and pleasurable. She might not have to depend  on Eric Dantzler. Espionage was a job where one had to keep one's wits and he was no  longer objective. 
Her father, a minor government offcial, had arranged her marriage at sixteen to a  middle­aged Count von Klopsic, as a way of getting a promotion. The old man was not  exactly Prince Charming but there were compensations, lots of money, position. After a  year she had her first affair, quickly followed by another and another. Gari soon discovered  her husband didn't care about her extramarital activities, as long as she was discreet. One of  her lovers was an American agent who recruited her into the espionage business. Like Sydney 
Black, she looked upon it as a challenge where she could use her talents and intelligence. 
Now, she didn't want the game to end. 
Before she had reached her car, she had made a decision. No matter what Stanley 
Boyer decided, she would buy the La Baroness with her own funds and let Ammi Orleans  run it. After all, whorehouses never lost money, and it might be fun. 
``Well, Major,'' Ziegler said, `` I think you'll agree I was right in this.'' 
Ziegler carefully put report he had read into a desk drawer and locked it. It con­  tained The report contained all the information Goldberg had gathered in the last week, the  crew's sentiments, the tendency of Buch to appear drugged, and his indiscretions with the  prostitute. 

TEST 177 
``He is not a well man and should not be in command of this mission,'' Ziegler continued. 
``I think we shouldn't act too hastily,'' Goldberg said. ``He has been under considerable  stress. There was the loss of his ship. . . .'' 
``Being under considerable stress is a commander's job,'' Ziegler shot back. ``But, you  are right,'' he added calmly. ``Keep an eye on him and keep me informed.'' 
Goldberg saluted and left. He had to admit Buch was not the man to be in charge, but  he didn't think that bastard Ziegler should be in charge, either. What was really motivating  the son­of­a­bitch was personal glory. When `Volant' won the war for Germany, Ziegler  wanted to be known as the man who pulled it off. 
On June 20 the LZ 99 was due for a series of high­speed tests. As much as he tried to  avoid it, Buch would have to go. He tried to convince himself he was building teamwork, but  he knew this was false. Whenever he gave an order the men looked to Ricman, who through  some subtle signal, would approve the command. If Ricman disagreed with the command,  he would question it and it would only be carried out when he was satisfied. 
Buch had developed a private routine. He would not eat or drink for at least twelve  hours prior to launch. He had not lost control of his bodily functions yet in front of the men,  but he didn't want to take the risk. He would take a triple dose of his cough syrup before  heading for the zeppelin. He had lost nearly twenty pounds in a month, his face had become  haggard, and his hands palsied. 
Shultz drove him to the airship. Ricman had already seen to the preflight inspections  and checkouts. As Buch entered the control car, he was met by Eric Dantzler, who would  be in charge of the engines. ``If you don't mind me saying sir, you look terrible,'' he said as  he greeted the captain. 
``I picked up a touch of the flu at Friedrichshafen,'' Buch said quickly. 
Only Ricman's scowl prevented the crew from laughing out loud. 
As they rose in the air, Buch remained glued to his spot on the right side of the ship,  his hands firmly grasping the rail, filled with shame. 
Ricman handled the ship admirably. The test involved bringing the engines to idle, then  pushing them full speed at various altitudes while Dantzler monitored their performance. 
Dantzler ran from engine one and two in the control gondola, to three in the right pod, to  five and six in the aft gondola, then to engine four in the left pod. He would repeat this  performance at each altitude and each run. After a few hours, he was near exhaustion. 
``You're earning your money today, Herr Dantzler,'' Ricman said, as he descended the  ladder and entered the hatch to the engine compartment. 
``You're right,'' Eric said wiping the sweat from his forehead, although even though  the temperature was below freezing. ``I'm having trouble with the magneto on number two. 
I'll need another run.'' 
Ricman gave an order for the ship to increase through three­quarters speed, full speed,  and then flank speed. 

TEST 178 
Buch remained motionless, watching the clouds slip by when he heard Ricman ask, 
``Airspeed?'' 
``One hundred and seventy­two kilometers,'' came the reply. 
The airship was moving at nearly eighty miles­an­hour, close to its top speed. A throb  could be felt through the deck as the zeppelin cut through the clouds, the feeling exhilarating  to the crew, except Buch, who now gripped the rail in panic. 
The ship was coming out of a cloud bank when the helmsman shouted, ``Jesus Christ!'' 
The windshield exploded. The helmsman was knocked off the deck and thrown violently  into the engine room wall. There were a number of loud bangs and the throb had become  a series of thuds. Buch turned and saw a scene of carnage. They were all splattered with  blood, gore, and --- feathers? 
``All ahead full, come to 2000 meters,'' Ricman shouted. 
Now Buch reacted. His ship --- his men --- were in danger. ``Belay that,'' he yelled, ``all  stop.'' 
The crew looked at Ricman, who looked at Buch, and saw something in the captain  he hadn't before. He nodded imperceptibly. 
``All stop. Aye, aye, sir,'' a crewman responded. 
The door between the control and engine rooms flew open as Dantzler and the engine  crew tumbled in followed by thick white cloud. 
``Fire,'' the elevator man screamed as he ran for the ladder in a panic. 
Buch reached out and put his hand on the man's shoulder. 
``Lick your lips,'' he said. ``Glycol. Anti freeze. It's steam, not smoke.'' 
``Return to your post,'' Buch told him. ``Number one, take the helm.'' 
On the floor was a lump of misshapen flesh, the remains of the thirty­pound goose that  had crashed thorough the window. ``Someone put that poor thing out of its misery. The  navigator wrung its neck and threw the remains out the window. Although he was covered  with blood, the helmsman found most of it was not his, but the bird's. His face was battered  and bruised and he certainly wouldn't be the handsomest man for a few weeks. 
The roof hatch opened and Becker dropped down. One glance and he knew who to  report to. ``Captain, we have taken bird strike damage at least four places,'' he began. 
``One hit the envelope and caused that gash,'' he pointed to the twenty­foot tear forward  of the gondola. ``Another took out the number­one engine radiator and the aft prop blade  shattered. The blade tore through number seven gas bag.'' 
``Get that first,'' Buch said pointing to the gash forward, ``then patch the bag.'' 
Any forward momentum and the wind would have torn the gash further, exposing the  forward gas bags and entangling the props. Ricman hadn't realized this. ``I have a crew on  both,'' Becker answered. ``We should be ready to get underway in about a half hour, but we  won't have all our props.'' 

TEST 179 
Another flock of geese flew by in V formation honking angrily at the intrusion of their  airspace. As the airship was nearly motionless, they easily flew by it. At the front of the  ship, hands reached down, grabbing the ends of the tear and using large needles trailing  waxed twine began to sew up the edges. Others were mending the gas bag. Buch walked  over to Ricman, his fear forgotten. ``I'm sorry to have to countermand your order,'' he said  softly. ``It would have been the right one in combat.'' 
``I understand, Captain,'' Ricman answered, genuinely glad the captain had corrected  his mistake. 
Indicating the elevator man and lowering his voice more, Buch added: ``Go easy on  him. We all lose our nerve now and then.'' 
``Aye, aye, Captain.'' 
Repairs complete, Buch decided to inspect the work. The men were surprised to see  him. The Captain's whole demeanor had changed as he praised their work and promised  rewards. He came into the control room. ``Captain on deck,'' Ricman sang out as Buch  dropped down the ladder. He felt a shot of pride course through him. He was Captain. 
``Heading two zero, altitude 500 meters, engines three, and four, ahead full.'' The  confident voice rang out as he stood in the center of the gondola, hands clasped casually  behind his back. 
``It would appear,'' Goldberg said, ``the Captain is his old self again.'' 
Colonel Ziegler stared with his emotionless snake's eyes but Goldberg knew he was  seething. His coup had failed. ``We can only hope so,'' Ziegler finally spoke, ``but keep an  eye on him.'' 
Goldberg went to his offce feeling better than he had in weeks. Not only was he enjoy­  ing Ziegler's failure, but his early­warning system of school children was showing promise. He  had received a number of false alarms, but these only helped improve the fighter squadron's  response time. His liaisons with Gertrude Bibelhofer had been quite pleasant. 
As he sat down, he faced a stack of brown envelopes marked `very urgent' from head­  quarters in Munich. A new offcer named Kapfman, who was filled with his own self­  importance, believed every memorandum he wrote was in this category. The first three  were about the requisition of offce supplies. The fourth concerned a background check. 
To Major J. Goldberg, Commander 
128th Security Detachment 
Elmsdorf Airship Base. 
Sir, 
This is to inform you that a background check of Dantzler, Eric, employee of the 
Maybach Engine Division of the Zeppelin Company and Swiss citizen, has revealed subject  is now serving a life sentence for the charge of murder, in prison, in the state of Massachusetts, 
U.S.A. American agents confirm this information. 
Lieutenant Stepan Kapfman 

TEST 180 
Intelligence offcer 
12 Security District 
``God damn it,'' Goldberg's voice traveled through his offce door. ``Sergeant, get this  idiot on the phone,'' he shouted, ``I've had enough of this.'' 
Of the background checks sent to headquarters, half had returned, blatantly, in error. 
One reported a man as retired and living outside Hamburg, age 82. The man in question  was just nineteen. Another was said to have been killed in combat. The most blatant error,  up to now, concerned a 20­year­old seaman named Ludendorff, who was commanding the 
German army. 
``I'm sorry, sir,'' Grabenski reported. ``I'm unable to contact Munich.'' 
Goldberg sat down to compose a memo. ``Dantzler in jail,'' he mumbled, ``ridiculous.'' 
It was Hanna's idea. A party to announce the engagement. Buch invited fellow offcers  and some of the crew. Sherry asked school friends and Hanna invited the neighbors. Frau 
Kohler supplied the excellent meal and Herr Kohler supplied the hard cider. Goldberg came  and so did Colonel Ziegler, which was a surprise to everyone. 
It was a victory celebration, of a sort, to Buch, a battle he had won with himself. After  dinner Ricman stood to speak, ``Captain, the crew and I held a collection and bought you a  little present.'' He handed him a long, heavy box. Inside was a beautiful model of the LZ 
99. 
The model had been made by Reinhold Darhower. It was very detailed and he had  needed engineering drawings and dimensions, which Ricman and Mohne gladly supplied him. 
Copies were now in the hands of British Intelligence. 
There was only one bad moment, when Ricman remarked, ``If they would only let us  do our job the war would be over tomorrow.'' Goldberg cleared his throat to catch Ricman's  attention and put his finger to his lips. The guests had drifted away. The women were  cleaning up, leaving Buch and Eric alone on the porch listening to the sound of the crickets. 
Buch was pleasantly drunk. He heard Eric saying what a good son in law he would be and  how he would take care of Sherry no matter the war's outcome. Buch just smiled. ``Don't  count Germany out yet. When the weather's right, those of us who sail above the clouds  can deliver victory and you will be part of it.'' 

Strasser 
It had been some time since Eric had seen Reinhold Darhower. The man hadn't changed  a bit. From his tower, he had kept a close eye on the zeppelin base and had reported the  arrival of the three new zeppelins and the fighters. His information was in Allied hands  long before any of Eric's reports left Germany. Eric and the Darhowers would have made a  fantastic team, except neither knew the other was a spy. 
``What can I do for you, son?'' Darhower asked. 
Eric wanted a strong square box, welded to the frame below his car's passenger seat. 
``There're a few things I would rather not keep lying around,'' he said with a wink. He  hoped he didn't have to explain more than that. 
``Yes,'' Darhower replied, ``with the banks as they are, I don't blame you.'' 
Darhower believed the box was a portable safe to keep valuables in, and, in a way, he  was right. Eric wanted a place to keep his emergency kit, important papers, money, and  passport in case he had to flee in a hurry. 
When the work was done, Darhower invited Eric upstairs for a cup of coffee. They  talked about the weather, women, and the war. Darhower told Eric the gossip around town,  and Eric told him about the last flight and the bird strike. 
``Those new zeppelins are a piece of work,'' Darhower remarked casually. 
``They certainly are,'' Eric replied. ``They're designed to take two extra engines, and 
I'm sure they could easily climb to 8000, maybe even 10000 meters.'' 
``What are those big tanks for?'' Darhower asked bluntly. ``The ones on the railroad  cars?'' 
``I've no idea,'' Eric lied. He did have an idea, but he hadn't even shared it with Gari  yet. 
``Strange business,'' Darhower said as he poured another cup of coffee for them both. 
``How goes the war?'' he asked. ``Not that propaganda they feed us in the papers, but  the real war?'' 
``I'm not sure, ''Eric said, ``I get the impression it is not going well. For a while there  it seemed that we would win, but now I don't know. Buch seems to have high hopes that  somehow what we are doing here will turn the tide.'' 
``Come now, Eric,'' Darhower said as he lit his pipe, ``the zeppelin has never lived up  to its promise. It has never been much of a weapon.'' 
``I know,'' Eric said, ``but I get the impression the offcers think the war will be won  from the air.'' 

Darhower was very pleased with himself. It had been a very instructive day. 
By the end of June the war had stagnated --- again. Another German offensive had  failed. Ludendorff planned for another attack, yet another `final offensive.' The failure of  the last battle placed operation `Volant' in a much better light. Strasser traveled to Berlin  and then to Spa, trying to get the High Command, Ludendorff, Hindenburg and the Kaiser  to give the plan the go­ahead. On his way back to Nordholz, he stopped by Elmsdorf to  meet Buch. 
The airship had been repaired and Dantzler had to redo his speed trails, this time with 
Buch firmly in command. After the flight, Buch let Eric ride to headquarters with Ricman  and him. The two had become closer since it was now Eric was to be his son­in­law. ``Can  you join us for a picnic Sunday?'' Eric asked. 
``No, I'm afraid not,'' Buch answered. ``I'll be meeting with Captain Strasser this  weekend.'' 
``Besides,'' he added, ``I doubt whether you'll be having a picnic. It's going to rain.'' 
``I'd listen to him,'' Ricman said. ``He has a sixth sense about the weather.'' 
``Well then,'' Eric said, ``we will have to change our plans.'' 
In his mind, he started to form a different plan. Buch would be away and a storm  would help muffe any sounds he might make taking pictures. This weekend he would do  it --- take the damn pictures and get on with his life. 
Schoolmistress Biddlehafner had invited the Major to a church dance and he had  accepted. He was spending a lot of time with her and was feeling better about himself, more  jovial, much to Sergeant Grabenski's amusement. The sergeant was pleased with his role as  matchmaker. 
As he was leaving, Lieutenant Rissinger brought in several envelopes. ``Dispatches  from headquarters,'' he said, ``all marked urgent, of course.'' 
Goldberg took the stack and threw the letters in his `in' basket. ``Nothing so urgent it  can't wait till Monday,'' he called out as he left. 
One of the letters was not from Lieutenant Kapfman, but his commanding offcer. 
It read: 
To Major J. Goldberg, Commander 
128th Security Detachment 
Elmsdorf Airship Base. 
Sir, 
This is to inform you that an investigation of Dantzler, Eric, employee of the 
Zeppelin Company and Swiss citizen has revealed the subject is now serving  a life sentence for the charge of murder, in an American prison, in the state  of Massachusetts. American agents have confirmed this information beyond a  shadow of a doubt. 

If you have an individual working at your base assuming this identify; he is an  impostor and should be arrested immediately. I am dispatching agents to take  him into custody for questioning at the 12th Security District Headquarters 
Colonel Johan Serversky 
Commanding Offcer 
12 Security District 
Munich 
x 
Buch, Gerber, Ziegler and their first offcers were on hand next morning to greet Captain 
Strasser. They started the day with a tour of the ships. The L­70, which was the most  advanced Zeppelin in operational service was Strasser's flagship. He had not seen the newer  versions. By mid­afternoon they were assembled in Buch's offce and got down to the real  point of the visit. 
``Gentlemen, it goes without saying, everything said here, stays here,'' Strasser began. 
An affrmative nod from those present. He continued, ``Obviously, our June offensive was  not as effective as we had hoped. The High Command wants a greater push in the middle  of the month. I tried to persuade them to launch Volant as a prelude to this offensive. They  said the time was not right.'' 
``So they still have a supply of young men to kill,'' Buch blurted out. 
Strasser should have chastised his subordinate. He didn't. . . a point not lost on Ziegler. 
``Not for long,'' Strasser merely said. ``Not with America pouring fresh men into the  front.'' 
Strasser looked at his audience. ``I can tell you this. ''Everything will be in place by  the end of the month, so you should be able to launch at a day's notice. I want all three  ships loaded with the tanks, empty of course, and ready within the next two weeks. 
``The High Command, even Ludendorff, made one more concession,'' Strasser said  wiping his brow. If the offensive fails, Volant goes straight to his Majesty for approval. So  we must be ready.'' 
``You sound as if you expect the Army to fail,'' Ziegler said. 
Strasser was too smart to get drawn into that conversation. ``Just be ready,'' he said. 
That same afternoon, Sherry and Eric sat on the porch swing watching the rain Buch  had so accurately predicted. The soft creaking of the swing and the sound of the raindrops  lulled both into half­consciousness. ``I will hate to leave here,'' she said softly. 
``Why would you leave here?'' 
``When the war is over and we are married there will be no reason to stay.'' 
Her remark took him by surprise; he had been living day to day and not gazing into  the future. It held too many obstacles, most of which he'd rather not think about. 
``I don't know what papa will do when the war's over. The Navy is his life, but I don't  think he'll stay on.'' 
``Maybe he will become a commercial zeppelin captain,'' Eric offered. ``I'm sure Dr. 
Eckler contemplates a network of zeppelins for freight and passengers, world­wide.'' 

X 185 
``I think he would like that. And what will Mr. and Mrs. Eric Dantzler do after the  war?'' 
He felt a tightness in his throat. There would be no Mrs. Dantzler after the war. He  felt a tear trickle down his cheek. 
``Did you hear me?'' she asked, with a touch of annoyance. 
``I suppose they will just make babies.'' 
``Easy enough for Mr. Dantzler to say,'' she said, ``but what do you want to do after  the war?'' 
He decided to go along with the fantasy. ``I would like to go to America for a while,''  he said. ``I think there will be a big future for aviation there.'' 
She was silent. ``OK,'' she said suddenly, ``I'll come, as long as I have you to protect  me from those Indians and bears.'' 
The night was filled thunder and lightning and the wind increased as the gentile rain  became a summer downpour. Buch and Strasser went to Shed Ten, which, thanks to the  weather, was almost deserted for a Saturday night. The beer was cold and the food good. 
But both knew this was an off­the­record extension of the meeting. They sat in a back corner  and the girls were told to stay away. 
``It's madness,'' Strasser said as he tore the end off a loaf of bread. ``We have the key  to victory and those fools still want to play politics. If they keep it up, the morons won't  have a government to play with. There is already talk of negotiation.'' 
``Do you think Ludendorff can pull off a victory with the next offensive?'' Buch asked. 
``Not only no,'' Strasser replied, ``but, hell, no. Every taxi driver in Berlin knows more  about it than the High Command. It'll be less of a surprise to the Allies than church on 
Sunday. With the Americans pouring in, the only thing that saves us being kicked into next  week is they play politics, too.'' 
Strasser looked around to make sure no one was close. ``If we launched Volant first,''  he said quietly, ``before the offensive, the Allies wouldn't have a chance. Would they listen  to me? No!'' 
They talked of Ricman, the new men, training and the zeppelins. Buch told of the  bird strike incident. 
``And what about Ziegler?'' Strasser asked. 
``He's competent,'' Buch replied. He and his men have learned the zeppelin well. His  style is different but he'll get the job done.'' 
``Watch him,'' Strasser said, ``I used to have a dog like him. You had to kick it to show  who's boss.'' 
``I can handle him.'' 
``I'm sure you will,'' Strasser replied. ``Enough business,'' he said signaling for the  waitress, ``Let's drink and enjoy the ladies.'' 

The Storm 
Sherry and Eric sat in the living room playing a card game while Hanna sat on the couch  knitting. Although the middle of summer, the temperature had plummeted with the wind  and rain, so Herr Kohler had started a little fire in the fireplace. The Kohler's had retreated  to their little house soon after supper and now, as darkness approached, they were already  snuggled in their beds. 
Hanna would glance up from her knitting now and then at the couple sitting cross­  legged on the floor tossing the little bits of pasteboard on a pile. Occasionally, she would  hear a happy squeal from Sherry as she discovered a card she needed, or a triumphant grunt  from Eric. Hanna loved the couple. Loved being near them. In Sherry she saw all the  love and passion that she had lost. The two young people radiated happiness, and Hanna  was contented to absorb even a little of it. She had noticed a certain melancholy sweeping  over Eric from time to time. Probably, because, he was starting to face the tremendous  responsibility of becoming a husband. 
Hanna gathered her knitting and placed it into a wicker basket. ``Time for me to go to  bed.'' She stood up. The two young people wished her goodnight and she climbed the stairs  knowing before she reached her door, the couple would be abandoning their card game. She  paused, turned and walked back a few paces. 
There was a scurry as the couple untangled their bodies. Hanna smiled. ``Make sure  all the windows are closed,'' she called down. ``We don't want to have to mop up in the  morning.'' 
``Yes, Auntie,'' Sherry yelled. She and Eric smiled at each other at the thought of how  close they had come to getting caught. It was not long before he suggested they should be  getting to bed. 
Sherry grinned. ``I need the `sleep.''' She said. 
Later, as they lay naked in each other's arms, bathed in afterglow of their love­making,  she whispered: ``I have something to tell you.'' 
At that second, there was a flash of lightening and a thundering crash that shook the  whole house. Scared, Sherry clutched him and he answered with a firm, protective embrace. 
``I love you, too,'' he said. 
``I'll tell him tomorrow,'' she thought. 
A small piece of candle dimly lit the face of the large alarm clock. Eric listened to  raindrops on the roof, sounding like a thousand fingers idly drumming on a table. From time  to time the guestroom was flooded in a flash of light from the storm. He was nervous, his 
guts churning. From downstairs, he heard a muffed chiming. . . .one. . . .two. . . .three. It was  time. 
Eric quietly rose and put on his shoes. He had dressed right after Sherry returned to  her room an hour ago. He reached under the bed and grasped the box containing the camera. 
Slowly, quietly, he opened the door and slipped down the stairs. Fifteen more minutes and  he would be done. 
Overhead, Hanna was restless. Another thunderclap brought her to a state of troubled  consciousness. Was there something she needed to do? Cold rain splattered against the  panes like a fistful of pebbles. ``The windows,'' she thought. ``I'll bet that girl never closed  them.'' 
She argued with herself for a few minutes, before she came to a conclusion. ``I better  check,'' she thought. 
Eric had attached the flashlight to the camera and was placing documents beneath it. 
After each click, he would place another page under the camera and the pile was shrinking. 
Only a few minutes. . . . 
Hanna noticed the sliver of light under the study door and knew something was wrong. 
Treading like a ghost, see went to the door and peered into the keyhole. She saw a dark  shape and the camera and guessed what was happening. Her first thought was to tell Eric,  he would know what to do. Upstairs again, she opened his door without knocking. ``Eric,''  she whispered. Feeling the bed empty, she knew he must be with Sherry. She crossed the  hall. ``Eric?'' She whispered again. 
``What is it?'' Sherry said sleepily. 
``Sshh,'' Hanna said quietly. ``There is someone in your father's study taking pictures,  and I can't find Eric.'' 
``Go down the back stairs and telephone the base, '' Sherry told her, taking charge. 
``Tell them everything. I'll find Eric.'' 
She put on her night­coat and stealthily descended, afraid the intruder had harmed  him, maybe even --- no, that was unthinkable. She walked quickly to the gun cabinet beside  the fireplace and quietly took out one of her father's shotguns. She knew how to load and  use it. She aimed the gun at the study door, and waited. She felt strangely exhilarated,  frightened and excited. ``Combat must feel like this.'' 
Hanna wound the phone handle, got the base operator, and finally Rissinger, who was  duty offcer. ``This is Hanna Buch,'' she said quickly. ``There is an intruder at Captain 
Buch's house. We need help.'' 
``Stay on the line,'' Rissinger sent a runner to warn Goldberg. 
``Fraulien, is there anyone else at the house?'' 
``Yes,'' she said, ``my niece and her fianc’ee, Herr Dantzler.'' 
``Don't confront the intruder, '' Rissinger told her. ``Lock yourselves in a room. We  are on our way.'' 

Eric placed the last of the documents under the camera. He glanced at his watch,  three­twenty. The camera clicked quietly. Two minutes passed before he used the flashlight  for the final check of the room. ``Exactly as I found it,'' he thought, unaware there was a  gun pointing at the study door. Sherry's plan was to switch on the lights when the intruder  came out of the room and hold him at gunpoint until the security men came. 
The study door slowly began to open. 
Grabenski shook Goldberg awake. ``Sir,'' he said. ``There's a break­in at the Buch  house.'' 
After years of combat, he was awake instantly. ``Get the car ready and two good men,''  he ordered. ``Send someone to contact Buch. He'll probably want to be there.'' 
The door opened and a figure emerged. Sherry's hands shook with fear and excitement. 
``Stop,'' she screamed. ``Don't move.'' Her hand shot out and flipped on the light switch. 
Despite the sudden glare of the light, she knew. It would not have been worse if she had  found him in the arms of another woman. He had used her as an instrument to get at her  father. The damning camera was in his hand. He wanted to speak, to explain, but there was  nothing to say and the words wouldn't come. He looked pitifully at Sherry, her eyes cold. 
``Get out!'' The gun wavered now, not from fear, but from fury. Eric was suddenly  afraid. 
``Get out,'' she screamed. She squeezed back the trigger and had to fight herself to keep  from adding that fraction of pressure needed to fire. Eric knowing one moment more would  mean death, rushed to the door, expecting to feel the blast of the shotgun at any second. 
Without looking back, he ran out, slamming the door behind him. The wind­blown rain  diluted the tears that streamed from his eyes. He glanced at his watch, three­twenty­three. 
Three minutes and his life was in shambles. He ran through the storm to the barn where  the car was parked, tossed in the camera and groped for the switches and the crank. At the  end of the driveway, he turned towards Elmsdorf and had traveled half a kilometer before he  realized his mistake. He stopped in the middle of the road. There would be no going back. 
As the rain beat his face, he started to appraise his situation. How much time did he have? 
Where will he go? What should he do? 
He'd gone half­a­kilometer towards Elmsdorf before he realized his mistake and  stopped. He remembered the house had a telephone and it would only be a matter of  time before they called the base, if they hadn't already. The Buch's house was the only  place around that had telephone and electric lines, so the poles were not very large, maybe  three inches thick and thirty There was no way he could climb the slippery wet poles. He  got a length of rope from the trunk, tossed the end over the wires, and tied it to the car. He  put the car in gear the wires parted with a shower of sparks, cutting off both telephone and  power to the house. He untied the rope and headed for Cologne. 
Buch, roused from his bed, rushed to Elmsdorf's security headquarters. He took the  phone and tried to calm Hanna. ``Is Sherry all right?'' he asked. The line was full of static  from the storm. 
Hanna could barely hear him. ``I'll get her.'' 

There was a sickly silence as Hanna went in search of the girl who was sitting on the  couch, gun across her knees, sobbing into her hands. 
She came to the phone. 
``Oh, papa,'' she began, ``It's Eric, he's. . . '' It was the instant Eric tore the lines in  two. 
Buch almost panicked. ``It's gone dead!'' 
``Let's go,'' Goldberg said. 
The light from the headlamps did little more than illuminate sheets of rain. Eric could  only see the road well when lightning flashed, and then only through rain­streaked goggles. 
More than once he felt the wheels spinning in the mud, but didn't let the car get bogged  down. He stopped in the middle of the covered bridge for a few minutes to contemplate his  next move. He would board the first train out of Cologne. The car was useless as a getaway  vehicle. He would have to make his way to Switzerland, then he could write Sherry and  explain everything. That's what he would do. 
Sergeant Grabenski was having the same trouble with the visibility and with the roads,  but the passengers inside were dry. Conversation was at a minimum. No one wanted to voice  their fears. 
They passed the dangling wires hanging from the roadside pole. 
``That explains the dead telephone,'' Goldberg muttered. ``Proceed Sergeant.'' 
Buch was worried. Hanna said there was an intruder. So all sorts of scenarios sprang  to mind. He was concerned about Eric. Sherry's last words were ``Eric, he's. . . .'' she said. 
He's. . . .dead? Wounded? What? 
Goldberg spoke to his men: ``We won't just cruise up to the door. Sergeant, turn out  the lights. When we get close I want you two to run behind the house and cover the back. 
The sergeant and I will go in the front.'' 
``It might be better if you stayed with the car, '' he said to Buch. 
``No,'' the Captain said shaking his head. ``That will not do.'' 
Goldberg nodded, reached into his pocket, pulled out a gun and handed it to him. He  then produced a Luger that he jammed under the stump of his left arm and cocked. 
The assault was uneventful, except to scare two already­frightened women and to  awaken Herr Kohler, which resulted in an exchange of gunfire. Thankfully, neither he nor  the security guard were very good shots that night. Sherry rushed to her father who held  her tight. 
``Eric is a spy,'' she sobbed. 
It took a few minutes to get the whole story from the women. Goldberg calculated  what to do next while Buch seethed with a cold fury. If Eric had magically appeared, Buch  would have killed him in cold blood. 
``We didn't pass him, so he must be heading for Cologne,'' said the Major. 
``Should we pursue?'' 

``No,'' Goldberg answered. ``We'll go back and get on the phone. He can't outrun  that.'' 
Buch could not tell if anything had been disturbed in his study. ``Is there anything  here that would seriously imperil the mission?'' Goldberg asked. 
Buch quickly opened the safe and removed the copy of the plan he had submitted  in 1914. He cradled the papers that had obviously been recently handled. ``No,'' he said, 
``nothing here is that important.'' 
The black storms of the night had given way to a gray, cold, drizzle. As dawn neared, 
Eric stopped again in the middle of a covered bridge to act on a plan he had formulated on  the journey. He got out of the car, crawled underneath and unlocked the box that Darhower  had welded. Inside there was money and envelopes containing travel papers. He was stuffng  the bills and papers in his pockets, when a voice asked: 
``Is there a problem?'' A light flashed in his eyes, as he stared up at a police offcer on  a bicycle, heart pounding. 
``Sorry to startle you, lad,'' the policeman said in a friendly tone. ``Need any help?'' 
``No,'' Eric managed to smile, ``had a little problem with the transmission, all right.'' 
``I'll be finished in ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. Thanks.'' 
``All right then,'' the policeman said. ``Are you sure you won't be needing my help?'' 
``No. Thanks anyway.'' 
With a wave the policeman peddled away. 
His tools were in a canvas bag and he dumped them out, stuffng it with some rags he  kept under the seat, now he would not attract attention as a man traveling without luggage. 
He took the film out of the camera, put that in his bag, punched holes in the camera with  a screwdriver and threw it into the stream where it sank quickly. 
He drove directly to the railroad station and bought a ticket on a train leaving for 
Hamburg in forty­five minutes. There were several policemen about, but they didn't seem  interested in him. He got back in the car and drove to Herr Mueller's stable --- his bright  yellow car was a little too obvious. 
Mueller and his son were feeding the animals. As he had in the past, Eric parked the  car in the barn and covered it with a tarp and offered Mueller money, which he turned down. 
``Pay me when you return,'' he said. 
``I may be a while,'' Eric said, insisting he take two month's rent. Eric kept checking  his watch; he didn't want to be late, but he didn't want to hang around at the station either. 
Mueller got his son hitch up a landau to take him to the station. Eric didn't protest. He  would be less conspicuous that way. 
Although Buch would have liked to stay and comfort Sherry, it was his duty to report  to Strasser about Dantzler. He felt somehow responsible, as did Goldberg, remembering the  letter he received which he had not believed. 

Once at the base they dropped Buch off at headquarters. We'll get him,'' the security  chief promised. He hurried to his offce to contact police and his headquarters. Buch went  to his offce and began typing his resignation. 
Eric had timed it perfectly. The conductor shouted, ``All aboard,'' and as he took a  seat in a carriage it already was moving. He glanced out and noticed the policemen appeared  to be scouring the platform, but this could have nerves, he told himself. The dispatcher in 
Cologne had received the call from Goldberg and alerted the police at the station minutes  beforehand. Within the hour they would round up fifteen irate, innocent travelers. 
Goldberg was informed about the departure of the train to Hamburg, at 7:15 a.m. He  was also told about the train to Frankfort at 7:20, the one to Berlin at 7:45 and the one to 
Dresden at 8:00. Dantzler could be heading almost any direction and within hours could be  almost anywhere in Germany. 
Goldberg had to face the music. Forty­five minutes later he was getting a verbal  tongue­lashing from Colonel Johan Serversky, Commanding Offcer, 12th Security District. 
Chastened, he hung up the phone. ``Sergeant,'' he said to Grabenski, ``pack a bag. We  are off to Friedrichshafen.'' 
Eric got off the train at Essen and went shopping. First for a proper carpetbag, then  for a change of clothes, a cheap suit and a hat. He went to the apothecary and picked out  some cosmetics, tooth powder, and brush, a comb, shoe­polish, soap, talc, lipstick (for his  wife, he told the clerk) and a pair of cheap reading glasses. He rented a room in a hostel  under the name of Johan Mueller and went to the bathroom. He sprinkled the talc on his  hair to give it a gray look, smeared a small amount of lipstick on his cheeks to make them  ruddy and smudged an tiny bit of shoe polish under his eyes. When he was done, he looked  twenty years older. He left the hostel through the back door and was back to the station  just in time to buy some newspapers and catch a train for Leipzig. 
On the train it was easy to hide his face behind the newspaper and he was beginning  to feel confident. Perhaps there was a reason he had not been turned over to the police,  or perhaps the search was localized. This was dangerous thinking, he realized, if he was to  escape, he must suspect everyone. 
It was late when the train pulled into Leipzig. A check at the ticket counter revealed  the next train to Munich would be at 8:30 in the morning. Ten hours to fill. It wouldn't be  wise to stand around the train station that long. He considered contacting Gari, but realized  if he was caught, this would incriminate her. He stepped out of the station into the night to  where a row of cabs was parked along the curb. ``Say, friend,'' he asked a driver, ``I have a  few hours before my train. Where can a fellow get a little companionship?'' 
If the cabby was dishonest, Eric could find himself in a gutter with his throat slit. The  taxi stopped in an alley behind a small bistro. The cabby honked and a dark figure came  out. 
``Shall I wait?'' The cabby asked. 
``Can you pick me up around seven thirty tomorrow morning?'' Eric pressed a bill into  the man's hand. 

The cabby looked at the bill. ``I'll be here.'' 
He was lead down a flight of stairs into a basement anteroom where five girls sat  along a wall. The figure, who turned out to be a large woman dressed in men's clothes,  recited a menu of acts and prices, like a waiter. He chose a plump, pockmarked teenager  and handed over some money. He made dingy, unremarkable love in a dingy, unremarkable  room. Anything else would have been suspicious. 
While the girl slept, Eric lay in the dark, back to her, thinking of Sherry. She was lost  to him. It was hours before his mind simply shut down and sleep overtook him. 
Colonel Serversky called Berlin, Frankfort, Hamburg and especially Friedrichshafen,  spreading the dragnet wider. He dispatched field offcers to Elmsdorf to help in the investi­  gation. Gave instructions for a drawing and a description to be sent to every police station  in Germany. He knew, as each hour passed, his quarry could get farther away, or dig deeper  underground. 
Buch briefed Strasser who was understandably upset, but swung his attention to dam­  age control. They sat down and tried to determine what Dantzler could know, and what  he could have found out. Strasser changed his schedule to remain with Buch. After eight  hours both had arrived at the same conclusion, voiced by Strasser. ``He can't possibly have  enough to hurt us.'' 
Buch handed him his resignation. Strasser read it, tore it in half and stuffed the pieces  into his pocket as if it didn't exist 
Volant would proceed as planned. 
``Hey, mister, your cab is here.'' 
Eric opened his eyes slowly, then realized where he was, and why. The girl still shook  him. ``Hey, mister,'' she said over and over. Sun filtered into the room through a dirty  window, illuminating everything within. The girl looked even homelier than she had last  night. 
``Time?'' He croaked through dry lips. 
``A little after eight,'' came the reply. 
``Damn,'' he said, snapping awake. He leaped from the bed and started to throw on  his clothes. 
In minutes he was dressed, but disheveled. He had no time to alter his appearance as  he had the day before. He was about to leave when he thought of the girl, and reached in  his pocket for some bills. ``Thanks, '' he muttered. 
He ran to the cab, tossed in his bag and leaped in after it. ``Station,'' he shouted as if  the command was necessary. The morning traffc was heavy and the minutes ticked by. The  cabby's cursing didn't help the situation. A block from the station, Eric paid him off the  cab and ran the rest of the way getting to the platform just in time to see the last car of the  train to Munich disappear. He was angry at himself, and at the fates, but he couldn't rant  and shout and call attention to himself. He walked to the ticket booth and bought a seat on 
the next train to Friedrichshafen with a stop at Munich. The train did not leave until after  seven o'clock in the evening. Now what do I do?'' He asked himself. 

Flight 
Buch found his daughter curled up on the porch swing staring blankly at nothing. He tried  to comfort her, but she just shrugged him off. He remembered Hanna acting like this once ---  hurt by one man, she turned her anger towards all men. He didn't want Sherry to turn bitter,  but he didn't know what to do. ``Have they found him yet,'' Herr Kohler hissed. Buch shook  his head.``I will kill the bastard with my own hands,'' Herr Kohler shouted angrily. ``We  trusted him and he betrayed us. I will kill him, I swear!'' 
``Please calm down,'' Frau Kohler said, wiping tears from her eyes. A sad­looking 
Hanna prepared some food. Buch put his arm around her and his affection startled her. ``It  will pass,'' she said quietly. ``It will pass.'' 
The day seemed endless to Eric wandering through Leipzig. Sitting in a darkened  cinema, trying to look inconspicuous. He felt as if the word `SPY' was tattooed on his face. 
Glancing at his watch a thousand times didn't make time go any faster. His nerves were raw  as the time for the train's departure neared. Eventually, back at the station, he went to the  counter to inquire about his train's arrival time, only to have an electric chill rush through  his body as the gaze went beyond the clerk to a bulletin board on the far wall. Tacked  amid an assortment of notices was a line drawing of his face. Now he knew his paranoia was  justified. His name and likeness were, no doubt, posted in every train station in the country  and, by tomorrow, in every post offce and public building. He had seen the same type of  poster many times, never imagining his face would adorn one. He hoped others paid as little  attention to them as he had. A voice announcing the departure of the train to Munich and 
Friedrichshafen floated through the air as a phone rang in the ticket clerk's offce. As he  answered, his eyes locked on the face in the poster, then at Eric, who was now rising to walk  out on the platform to board. He didn't hear the voice on the phone as he decided what to  do. Sorry,`` he said, ''an emergency has come up.'' Hanging up, he tore the poster from the  wall and went in search of a policeman. 
As he settled into a seat next to a window, Eric saw the clerk talking excitedly to  several uniformed police on the edge of the crowd, waving and pointing to the paper in his  hand. Eric stuck his head out a window in time to see one policeman board the first car;  he could only imagine another doing the same in the rear. It was not a very long train and  it would only take a few minutes to search. Abandoning his carpetbag he got off onto the  platform. As the conductor yelled the last call, and the train's whistle shrieked above the  noise of steam leaving the pistons, Eric sprinted to the lead car and jumped back aboard,  glimpsing the clerk and the two cops getting off. ``That was close,'' he sighed under his  breath, ``too damn close.'' 
Eric Dantzler's appearance was not exactly outstanding. Thousands met his descrip­ 
tion and many of them could match the picture that had been circulated. Colonel Seversky  guessed Dantzler would try to flee through Friedrichshafen, as his investigation showed most  of his contacts were there. He directed Goldberg to send a security man to Friedrichshafen  who could positively identify Dantzler. Goldberg volunteered to go himself. The Major and 
Grabenski didn't stop to eat, or sleep hoping to be there before him. ``If he's there,'' the 
Major thought. ``I'll get him.'' 
As his train neared Munich, Eric became acutely aware he hadn't eaten for the last  two days. This was a situation he would have to remedy. The brakes began to screech as  the train slowed down for Munich station. Passengers bustled about getting their things  together, and then were gone. Eric set his carpetbag on the seat to save it and followed  a small family onto the crowded platform as if he were a member. He bought a sausage  on a bun, a paper cup filled with fried potatoes and a bottle of milk, and then reboarded. 
He never noticed the tall blond man, or the short stocky man who started to head in his  direction. They had recognized him instantly. Both were long time veterans of the Bavarian 
State Police and picked out Eric not only by his description and picture, but by his body  language: like the way he constantly scanned the crowd. They had seen him get back on the  train and decided to follow. There were still some things they didn't know. Did he have a  gun? Would he use it? Was he alone? 
They preferred not to arrest him on a crowded platform in case of gunfire. Like the  good hunters they were, they would wait until they had their quarry trapped, and couldn't  harm anyone. They split up, the blond man boarding two cars ahead, the stocky man got  into Eric's carriage. 
Eric had been pleasantly surprised to find a young woman in the compartment who  reminded him of Sherry and a scarecrow thin companion who was obviously her mother. 
Eric introduced himself as Johan Mueller, sat down and began to eat, trying not to wolf  down the food. His two pursuers closed in. The stocky man entered the compartment and  sat beside Eric, his partner pretending to be an associate who had not seen him recently,  greeted him from the passageway. He came in and sat opposite his friend and the two men  began chatting. 
``Are you heading for the front?'' the girl asked suddenly. 
``No,'' Eric replied trying to think up a story, then deciding the truth couldn't hurt. 
``Actually, I'm an engineer with the Zeppelin Company.'' 
The knowledge Eric was an engineer, a professional man, went a long way to gain  acceptance in the older woman's eyes. The three engaged in conversation as the train pen­  etrated the night. Eventually the milk he had consumed inevitably made itself known and  he excused himself and left for the bathroom. As soon as he did so, the two men identified  themselves, informing the women that the amiable young man to whom they were talking  was, in fact, a dangerous spy. They must move without delay to another compartment.As  he came back along the corridor, the sight of the two women carrying their luggage to the  next car puzzled Eric. The young girl glanced back with a strange look. Perhaps the men  in the compartment had made advances or said something lewd? 
There was nothing in the manner of either of the men to indicate this. ``What happened 
to the ladies?'' he asked, as he took his seat beside the stocky man. 
``We asked them to leave.'' 
It was only then it dawned on him something was terribly wrong. He turned and  found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. ``Please, raise your hands,'' the police offcer  told him.``Eric Dantzler,'' the blond man said, ``you are under arrest.'' 
Goldberg and Grabenski reported to the police station in Friedrichshafen. They were  met by Johan Elbe, the offcer who had first checked on Dantzler. ``Good news, Major,'' 
Elbe said. ``We have a telegram saying Dantzler has been positively identified boarding the  train at Munich.'' 
``Did they arrest him?'' Goldberg asked enthusiastically. 
``Unfortunately, no,'' Elbe replied. ``But he should be in custody by now.'' 
``It will be good to see Eric again, won't it Sergeant?'' The major said to Graben­  ski.``Yes, Major,'' the sergeant answered, massaging a fist with his hand. ``Very good to see  him.'' 
He was searched and handcuffed. The policemen identified themselves as Sergeant 
Gregory Varna, and Inspector Herman Dettinger. He was uncomfortable sitting with hands  shackled behind his back, but neither seemed to care. Once he was secure, the policemen  put their guns back in their holsters and tended to ignore him. They went on with their  conversation on the merits of various soccer teams. 
The sun was coming up as the train entered the foothills of the Alps. The beauty of the  scenery was lost to Eric as he thought about his fate. He sat with his head leaning against  the cold glass. At best he would end the war in prison; more likely, would be shot. He would  have to face exhaustive interrogation, which probably meant torture, and that scared him. 
There was little he could do about it now. 
Dettinger's body suddenly emitted a long low rubble that was accompanied by a hor­  rendous stench. 
``My God,'' Varna moaned, ``something crawled up your butt and died.'' 
``Ach,'' Dettinger said, as he rubbed his stomach. ``I think that sauerkraut may have  been bad.'' 
Eric began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. ``Well at least you two can hold  your noses,'' he said. 
The policemen laughed so hard Eric laughed, too. Dettinger left loose another thun­  dering emission. 
``Good Lord!'' Varna shouted. Dettinger stood. ``You gentlemen will have to excuse  me. I must go, or the next one will be lumpy.'' He hurried to the bathroom. 
Eric and his captor had tears in their eyes caused from the laughter, or the fumes --- it  was hard to tell. ``Could I at least ask you to open the window?'' Eric asked. 
``Good idea,'' Varna said. 

He was lifting the window, allowing fresh air to sweep into the compartment when 
Eric's sudden and overwhelming attack surprised them both. He did not telegraph his  action because until a half­second ago, it hadn't even occurred to him. A football coach had  once told him when he went for a tackle to pick out a spot on the opponent and concentrate  all your force. He leaped off the bench and drove his shoulder into Varna's side. The big  blond man was shoved toward the rear of the compartment when the bench met his knee. 
There was an audible crunch as Varna's knee broke. Varna fell on his back, reaching out to  catch himself. Eric rolled away from the body and impacted the rear wall hard enough to  bloody his nose. He spun around and seeing Varna hit the floor, leaped on the man's body,  driving his knee into the man's stomach. Air exploded from Varna's mouth in a painful  groan. Eric fell on Varna with his elbow pressed hard on man's throat keeping his eyes shut  as the he pounded and bucked, trying to get air. Soon Varna lay quiet. Maybe a minute  passed. With diffculty, Eric slid his manacled hands down around his ankles, and with his  hands in front he was searching for the key when he remembered the other man had it. He  grabbed the gun from the policeman's holster and as Dettinger opened the door, he found  himself on the wrong end of the Luger. 
``Put your hands up and sit down,'' Eric said quietly. 
``May I check on the condition of my friend?'' Dettinger asked. 
``After you unlock these cuffs.'' 
Dettinger slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew his keys. 
``If you try anything,'' Eric said, ``anything at all. I will not hesitate to kill you.'' 
Dettinger looked into Eric's eyes as he leaned forward to unlock the handcuffs. He  momentarily thought about pushing the gun aside, but he had seen the adrenaline madness  in the eyes of other men, men who no longer cared if they killed, or were killed. He could  see Eric's finger on the trigger. The cuffs opened and clattered to the floor. 
``Now, may I check him?'' Dettinger asked again. 
Eric nodded. 
Dettinger felt Varna and then turned to face Eric. ``I don't know what you've done  before, Dantzler,'' the policeman said coldly, ``but now you're guilty of murder.'' 
Eric had never believed in his entire career that he would ever actually harm anyone. 
``Then I have nothing more to lose,'' he told the cop. 
The two men sat silently for a moment both wondering what the other would do next. 
``Take off all your clothes,'' Eric ordered. 
Eric Dantzler now wore Inspector Dettinger's clothes that were a little too big for him,  and carried the policeman's badge and identification papers. Dettinger was trussed up in  the compartment. Eric had used the handcuffs and strips of cloth from his underwear to  bind and gag him. As an extra precaution, he had beaten him unconscious with a rap of the  gun butt. Eric hoped he hadn't hurt the man too much. 
Friedrichshafen was the end of the line and the platform was filled. He closed all the  curtains on all the windows to the compartment, but Eric knew Dettinger and Varna would 
be discovered before the train left again. In fact he was counting on it. 
There were more police than usual covering the two entrances. Eric realized for his  plan to work would take courage so he bullied his way to the front of the crowd flashing 
Dettinger's badge. As he neared the two policemen at the exit, he held up the badge. 
``Herman Dettinger, Bavarian State Police,'' he said with authority, ``I have business with  your chief.'' 
``We've been expecting you. Do you have the prisoner?'' 
``My partner, Sergeant Varna has him,'' he improvised. ``He'll be here directly. I was  going to go ahead and clear everything with your chief.'' 
``You are in luck then,'' the policeman said, pointing toward the other exit. ``The chief  is right over there with people from Elmsdorf who can identify the suspect. Come.'' 
Damn, thought Eric. This was not how the scenario played in his head. 
Eric smiled weakly and followed. He thought about breaking and running, but realized  he would never make it to the door. As they worked their way towards the other group of  policemen, he could see Goldberg and Grabenski talking with the uniformed man he guessed  was the police chief. Goldberg looked up with a flash of recognition, just as the air was filled  with the shrill of a police whistle. ``They've found Dettinger,'' Eric knew. 
Things seemed to happen in slow motion. He turned and sprinted through the crowd  heading for the exit. Goldberg pulled his gun and began to run after him. Grabenski pulled  his gun and ran after Goldberg, not seeing Eric, but assuming his commander knew what he  was doing. Goldberg was close enough to take a shot, sighting down the barrel at Dantzler  who was briefly silhouetted against the arch of brightness that was the main entrance. He  was an easy target, until another silhouette emerged --- a woman holding the hand of a small  child. Goldberg jerked the barrel of the gun straight up and flipped on the safety catch. 
He continued the pursuit on foot, quickly plunging into that same bright arch. Outside the  morning sun momentarily blinded him. When his vision cleared, he looked up and down the  street, at the alleyways, taxis and coaches. 
Eric Dantzler was gone. 
He was much closer than Goldberg knew. He had ducked into a tobacconist across  the street. The proprietor apologized repeatedly for the limited selection --- the war and all. 
Eric bought some Turkish tobacco and asked the old man if he could use his washroom. The  man pointed to the outhouse in the back. Inside, he took off Dettinger's coat and pants he  was wearing over his own and stuffed them through the hole into the muck below. Then he  leisurely walked out into the next street. 
Eric knew Friedrichshafen well due to his months at the Maybach plant. He knew  exactly where to go first: a second­hand store where he had shopped before. This time he  bought a sweater, hat, denim trousers and tough workman's boots. Chatting with the sales  girl, he even went so far as to ask for a date he had no intention of keeping. If the police  questioned anyone, it wouldn't occur to her he was on the run. 
There was one big obstacle to overcome, boarding the ferry to Constance, which left  every two hours with Swiss precision. Daytime runs were relatively uncrowded. The busiest 
trip across to Switzerland would be in the evening run, as this carried home the workers  from the Zeppelin plant. This would be his safest option as the crowds would hide him, if  only he could avoid the police till then. Near the second­hand store was a pawnshop. He  smiled as the idea hit him: he would hide in plain view. 
The police station was a flurry of activity. Not only was the Friedrichshafen force  mobilized, but also police and constables from neighboring communities along with all the  troops who could be spared from the local prisoner­of­war camp outside of town. Searching  squads quickly found the coat and pants in the outhouse, but after that, the trail got cold. 
They would search the town block by block, if necessary. After all, Dantzler was not only a  spy, he had killed a police offcer. 
Goldberg, Grabenski and five soldiers from the POW camp were assigned to surveil­  lance at the ferry landing. It was thought Dantzler would still try to get to Switzerland,  even though, after the murder of offcer Varna that was no longer a safe haven. The Swiss  might grant asylum to a spy, but would extradite a murderer in a second, not wanting such  people to contaminate their society. 
The ferryboat, with little cargo and few passengers, pulled from the dock, filling the  air with the thunk, thunk, thunk, of its engine and the smoke of its exhaust. It would be  two hours before it returned. 
Goldberg stood watching it depart. He had never been in this part of Germany before. 
He gazed at the crystal­blue lake lying at the foot of the distant snow­covered Alps. It was  strikingly beautiful. There was a freshness in the air, a mixture of pine and water scents. 
Looking along the shoreline, there was a man lying in the grass in the shade of a tree, fishing  pole balanced on some rocks, line limp in the water, as if he was more interested in catching  a few winks than catching fish. ``Someday,'' Goldberg thought,`` when this war is over, I'm  coming back and do that.'' 
His mind snapped back to Dantzler. ``Where was the son­of­a­bitch?'' 
The police were now searching the area he had gone that morning. They showed his  picture to the girl in the second­hand store, who recognized him, however, the policeman  discounted him as the suspect when she related the fellow's attempt to get her to go out  with him. Dantzler would not have time for such nonsense. 
They showed the picture to the proprietor of the pawnshop, who also recognized the  face. However he had a long­standing policy of not cooperating with the police. ``Never saw  him,'' he told an offcer. Then he asked, ``What did he do?'' 
``He killed a policeman this morning.'' 
The shopkeeper shrugged. He knew it couldn't be the same man. Why would a viscous  criminal want an old tackle box and fishing pole? 
The ferry came into view, gliding slowly across the lake. Eric knew the routine well. 
6:45, the boat would begin to load vehicles and allow passengers to board, then at precisely 
7:00, the ropes would be tossed ashore and it would begin its two­hour journey. 
Eric closed up the tackle box, picked up the fishing pole and followed the path through  a small wood. He tossed both pole and box into the bushes, retrieved the hidden carpetbag 
and walked onto the lakeside road where buses were unloading people for the ferry. A  congealed mass of humanity was flowing toward the tollbooths. He joined it and became  another face in a faceless crowd. 
``Eric!'' Came a shout from behind him. 
He was filled with fear as he turned slowly to face the caller, and sighed with relief as  he recognized Otto Tubbman, an engineer with Maybach. Tubbman was a short, bald man,  whose good humor and intelligence made him everybody's friend. He lived in Constance  with an equally round wife and four chubby children. 
``I hadn't heard you were in town,'' Otto said, thrusting out his hand. 
Eric shook it warmly. ``Yes, but only for a few days.'' 
``I'll be less suspicious, talking with an old friend,'' he thought. 
The two men swapped stories as the mob moved forward, funneling into a series of  tollbooths. A policeman was standing at each booth. He recognized Major Goldberg off to  one side. Eric could see the policeman standing with his hands behind his back, staring into  each face. His mouth was dry and he coughed, instinctively putting his fist to his mouth. 
Think fast! The coughing became violent, racking, the cough of one who is choking. The  policeman's attention was drawn to him more out of concern, than recognition. 
``Are you all right?'' he asked. 
``I just need water,'' Eric stammered, still holding his hand to his mouth. He began  another bout of coughing. 
Tubbman hurried him through the line, paying his toll for him, as the policeman  went back to scrutinizing faces. People fanned out from the turnstiles, turning into a fast­  moving stream. Tubbman steered Eric toward a public water fountain, where he gulped and  swallowed. ``I think a bug flew down my throat.'' 
Eric tried to pay back the money for the toll, but Tubbman waved him off. ``I'm just  glad you didn't die back there,'' the little man said. 
``So am I,'' said Eric as they boarded the boat, ``so am I.'' 
At precisely 6:52, a uniformed motorcyclist handed a sheaf of freshly printed Wanted 
Posters to Sergeant Grabenski. They carried a drawing of Eric Dantzler's face as well as  a listing of his crimes, and the message, ``Anyone seeing this person should immediately  contact a law enforcement offcial.'' 
The posters had been rushed through the printers so fast, the ink wasn't quite dry. 
Within two minutes, Grabenski showed them to Major Goldberg. When the ferry  whistle blew last call at 6:55, Goldberg looked at the sergeant and asked, ``How about a  little boat ride?'' 
As the shore of southern Germany began to recede in the distance, Eric began to  believe he was going to make it. As Otto Tubbman droned on with gossip from the plant, he  leaned on the carpetbag and let his mind survey how he would spend the rest of the night. 

He would tell his Swiss family to contact Rudolf Wolfram and would let Frau Dantzler  force him to eat all kinds of exquisite things. Then a hot bath, a thick quilt and a goose  down mattress where he planned to sleep for a million years. 
On the other side of the ferry, Goldberg and Grabenski were with two Swiss policemen. 
Goldberg told them no one had seen the fugitive but they would like to be sure. 
``Let's hand these out.'' 
``What if he isn't on board?'' Asked one of the Swiss cops. 
``Then we'll do the same thing tomorrow, and the day after that,'' Goldberg answered. 
``I'm afraid I have to visit the head,'' Eric said, excusing himself, picking up his carpet­  bag and heading toward the toilets located amidships. When he returned, Eric saw Tubbman  staring at a small piece of paper, wearing a puzzled expression. He glanced toward the bow  and saw the back of a policeman who was handing out the posters, and he knew without  looking what they contained. Tubbman would give you the shirt off his back, but he was a  patriot. Eric reentered the toilet, locking the door behind him. It would be another hour  before the boat reached Constance. And he couldn't very well hide here. He could imagine 
Tubbman reporting him to the police already. ``Think, man,'' he muttered, ``think.'' 
He was correct. At the moment Tubbman was talking to Grabenski, who in turn  signaled to Goldberg. 
``Major,'' Grabenski said, ``this man says Dantzler is on board.'' 
Goldberg became very agitated. ``Are you sure? It's not someone who looked like  him?'' 
``No,'' Tubbman replied, allowing fear and astonishment into his voice, ``I know the  man. I worked with him.'' 
``He went to the bathroom,'' Tubbman stammered, ``right side.'' 
The security men dashed down the walkway, leaving Tubbman muttering, ``Eric a  murderer, Eric Dantzler?'' 
Realizing Dantzler might still have the gun from the dead policeman, they carefully  positioned themselves on either side of the locked door, pistols ready. Goldberg taped on the  door with the barrel of his gun. ``Occupied,'' said the voice within. It sounded like Dantzler. 
Goldberg nodded to Grabenski and the big sergeant lifted his left foot and viciously kicked,  shattering where the lock was attached. 
If the man sitting on the loo with his trousers around his ankles was constipated, the  sight of the two pistols pointed at his face was an instant cure. It was not Dantzler. 
``Sorry,'' the sergeant mumbled lamely, as he carefully closed the shattered door as best  he could. 
Later they might laugh, but not now. ``Get those policemen and the captain and meet  me at the bow,'' Goldberg commanded. ``We'll start there. It's a little boat. He can't stay  hidden.'' 
Eric worked his way down to the area in the bowels of the vessel where there were  several trucks and a few cars. On the right side was a hatch with a sign that read: ``Engine 

Room, Authorized Personnel Only.'' It was unlocked. Inside were girders, pipes and valves  with red wheels attached to them. The thud of the engine, sounded like a giant's heartbeat,  and it smelled of grease, oil, heat and sweat. 
He saw a man stripped to the waist, glistening with perspiration and dirt, shoveling  coal into the yawning mouth of the boiler. 
Either the man had good instincts, or his ears had detected a sound foreign to his  noisy world. He whipped around suddenly. 
``I'm sorry, sir,'' he said with a remarkably soft voice, ``you're not supposed to be down  here.'' 
He had absolutely no hair on his head and a huge beer belly that hung over the top of  his trousers, but one look at his massive arms and legs indicated it was the only place the  man had fat. 
``I've always been interested in engines,'' Eric answered as innocently as he could. ``Do  you take care of all this yourself?'' 
``There are two of us,'' the big man answered, ``but my assistant is sick today.'' 
He rubbed is hand over his shiny skull. ``Please, sir. I could get into a lot of trouble if  the captain found you down here.'' 
``But I'm not doing anything,'' Eric stammered, then made a hasty decision. Using all  the strength he could muster, he delivered a haymaker to the man's jaw that would stun a  horse. It was the wrong decision. 
The man stood there with a puzzled expression. ``Why the hell did you do that?'' 
His big hand reached out, grabbed a handful of Eric's shirt and lifted him off the  ground. ``I'll have to call the captain,'' he said, and threw Eric into the coal pile. 
With a face full of coal Eric spun round to see the huge back in front of a speaking  tube. He dashed across the deck to his bag and snatched out the gun. ``Stop,'' he shouted, 
``or I'll shoot.'' The crewman raised his hands. Eric tied him up and looped a length of  rope around his mouth to gag him. He thought he might have broken his hand when he hit  the man it hurt so much. But he made him lie next to a bulkhead, and covered him with a  canvas tarpaulin. 
Eric put the gun back and stuffed the bag out of sight. He took off his shirt, picked  up the shovel, and started to feed the fire. It was only minutes when the hatch opened and  a voice shouted, ``Hello?'' 
Eric turned and could make out the shape of one of the Swiss policemen. 
``Sorry. You're not allowed down here.'' 
``We are looking for a fugitive,'' the cop said, staring at the dark sweat and dirt  encrusted figure. 
``Ain't nobody come down here,'' Eric said, throwing another shovel load of coal in the  boiler. 

There were forty­five minutes to go. Goldberg was beginning to seriously doubt Tubb­  man's story. With the first mate they had checked every compartment, closet and storage  bin. If he hadn't jumped overboard, Eric was nowhere to be found. 
``You checked the engine room thoroughly?'' 
``Yes sir,'' the policeman lied. He hadn't felt like poking around the filthy inferno. If  anyone had gone down there, the engineer on duty would have known. 
Goldberg grilled Tubbman mercilessly. 
``How can you be so sure?'' 
``I know the man. I worked with him.'' 
``If you're playing some kind of game,'' Goldberg told him, ``I will make sure charges  are leveled against you.'' 
``I came aboard with him! That's all I know.'' Tubbman was beginning to think he  had made a grave error saying anything. 
Goldberg, on the other hand, felt that Tubbman may have been delusional, but he  could not chance this thought. He called Grabenski and the police together. ``You both have  whistles,'' he said to the policemen. ``You go with Grabenski and you come with me. We'll  circle the deck. He'll have to come out eventually. When you see him, whistle.'' 
Goldberg glanced at his watch. They would dock in less than half an hour. 
Eric stood in front of the hot, open door of the boiler, mechanically shoveling coal. He  was startled by the clanging of the engine telegraph, and ran forward to its pedestal. The  captain wanted half speed. Eric set the telegraph to acknowledge he had received the order,  then turned his attention to the massive engine. There was a row of levers and virtually  dozens of valves, none had labels, or tags, to indicate what they did. Eric knew gasoline  engines, but this was steam. It was like a plumber's nightmare. Which was the throttle? 
``Herman,'' the metallic voice blared out. ``Herman! Wake up down there!'' 
There was nothing to do but give it a try. He seized one of the most likely levers and  pulled. As he watched the tachometer, it appeared the engine was slowing. Then the ship  lurched, the engine started an ungodly thumping. ``God damn it,'' the speaker tube shouted. 
``Half speed, not reverse!'' 
Eric threw the lever forward to its original position. ``Herman! What the hell's the  matter with you?'' 
Grabbing his bag and his shirt, Eric rushed up the steps. As the hatchway closed  behind him, he could see a figure rushing down from the bridge. The ferry was running  parallel to the Swiss shore, two to three kilometers away. Eric could see the lights of rural  cabins and Constance in the distance. His watch said less than twenty minutes to go. 
The night air was pierced with the sound of a whistle. Eric turned to face the guns  of Goldberg and a policeman, less than thirty feet away. ``Hold it right there, Dantzler,'' 
Goldberg shouted. Grabenski and the other policeman were closing from the other side. . . 
Eric held his hands high, carpetbag still grasped tightly. There was nowhere to go, nowhere  to hide. 

As the police slowly advanced from both sides, it suddenly occurred to him if they  were to open fire, there was a very good chance they could shoot each other. 
``Drop the bag,'' Goldberg said. 
He did, overboard. ``You son­of­a­bit. . . '' 
Eric hit chilly waters below. The police had hesitated to open fire. 
In the frigid blackness, Eric struggled deeper and deeper. He never heard the bullets  now zinging into the water above him. All he could hear was the churning sound getting  louder and louder. The propellers. 
As the pain in his lungs became excruciating, he started for the surface. His head  popped out like a bobbing cork, and he got a mouthful of choking froth. He was just behind  the boat, in its wake. 
``Stop the boat,'' Goldberg shouted up to the bridge. 
``I can't,'' the captain shouted back. ``I haven't got an engineer yet.'' 
The policemen peered into the gloom, surrounded by the passengers who had run out  on deck to see what was going on. As the ferry got further away, Grabenski heard Goldberg  loose a stream of curses worthy of a veteran drill instructor. 
As Eric watched the lights of the boat recede in the distance, he realized he had  escaped one more time. Now he was facing more problems. The water temperature was only  about fifty degrees, he was over a mile from shore and he wasn't a strong swimmer. Once,  a childhood friend of his tried to swim across the mile wide Susquehanna and died in the  attempt. The distant shore looked an almost impossible goal. But he had to try. 
As he began to swim, he became aware of a dark object floating nearby. It was the  carpetbag, floating like a slowly sinking small boat. He tread water and searched its contents,  finding the little tin can containing the film, which he put in his pocket. He then emptied the  bag, dumping everything, including the gun, then turned it upside down so air was trapped  inside. He now had a flotation device. He slipped off his shoes and resting on the bag, he  started to kick his way towards shore. 
Aboard the ferry, the engineer had been found. The captain was arguing with Goldberg  about reversing direction to search for the fugitive, maintaining it was useless and Goldberg  insisting. Only when one of the Swiss policeman spoke to him, did the captain bring the  boat to a halt, and reverse direction. 
Eric could see the ferry coming nearer as its searchlights crisscrossed the water. The  cold ached into his limbs and the shore did not seem to be getting any closer. The ferry  changed course and Eric could hear the throbbing of the engines as it came within two  hundred feet. He was sure he would be found. A beam swept towards him, he dived under  water, keeping a firm grip on the handle of the carpetbag as the water around him glowed. 
``What's that?'' One of the policemen yelled, seeing the bag. 
``Junk,'' the captain yelled back, ``just junk.'' 
Goldberg still argued with the captain about turning back. This time the captain was 
adamant. He had a schedule to keep and he was already late. ``Admit it, Major,'' the captain  said. ``Your man will drown out there, if he hasn't already.'' 
When Eric saw the lights of the ferry again. It dawned on him it was heading back  to Germany. How long had he been in the water? An hour? Two? He was very tired. 
His muscles ached and the cold had sucked the energy from him. The shore was only a few  hundred feet ahead. If he could only sleep, for a little bit. 
On the returning ferry Goldberg and Grabenski leaned on the rail, hoping to see a  floating body confirming the captain's assessment. They were not allowed to leave the boat  in Constance. Uniformed German soldiers were not permitted into Switzerland. The Swiss  police would search the shore in the morning and report to the Germans. As it was now, 
Goldberg's report would read, ``missing, presumed dead.'' 
The glue that reinforced the seams of the carpetbag had dissolved and the bag no  longer was effcient at holding air. Eric dozed, only waking when his face went under water. 
He kicked less now and then stopped all together, and his legs dropped. His toes touched  the bottom. He stood upright, the water up to his chest. With renewed strength, he began  to plod toward the shore. He threw the carpetbag aside and pushed closer, crawling through  cattails and water grass onto the shore. There, he rolled over onto his back, staring at the  stars. 
He was soon shivering from the cold. He stood up and walked into the woods and  stripped, hanging his clothes on the branches of a pine tree. It would be nice to have a fire,  but he had no way to start one. He broke off some pine boughs and using them as a blanket,  lay down in a bed of pine needles. ``It's no feather bed,'' he thought, ``but it will do.'' 
Sunlight filtering through the pines awoke him. He hurt all over, arms, legs and  especially the hand with which he had punched the engineer. From the position of the sun,  he estimated it to be around noon. A warm breeze had dried his clothing but he had no  shoes. He needed to assess the situation. 
He was several miles west of Constance and he had, quite literally, only the clothes on  his back. He felt the authorities would be watching the Dantzler house and the police would  have patrols searching the shoreline. But he was only a few miles from Rudolf Wolfram's  cabin, and it had a bed, wood and a constant supply of matches. He also remembered 
Wolfram kept the cabin stocked with some canned goods, and he knew he would find fishing  tackle there and even a hunting rifle. He could hole up there until the police gave him up  for dead and then he could sneak into town and contact the Dantzlers. 
Three hours later he was less than half­way there, his body rebelled against the abuse  to which it had been subjected, his socks had worn off and his bruised, cut feet made every  step agony. By the time he finally made the cabin, rain was threatening. He would have to  figure a way to break in, but on trying the latch found it unlocked. Wolfram probably kept  it that way as a thief would have no problem breaking in. Inside smelled like home, even in  the dark. He carefully felt on the table next to the door for the box of matches and lamp,  just as he had dozens of times before. He struck a match. 
``About time you got here,'' said a voice from behind him. 

The `Egg' 
Mid­July saw the beginning of the Second Battle of the Marne. As Strasser had predicted,  and having been warned by German deserters, prisoners and aerial reconnaissance, the Allies  easily parried the Germans thrust. Within a few hours the French had blunted the attack  east of Reims and although 14 divisions of the German Seventh Army crossed the Marne  to the west, the American forces there halted their advance. Allied aircraft and artillery  destroyed the German bridges, disrupted supply lines and forced the attack to end on July 
17. There had been half­a­million German casualties in five months and even greater Allied  losses.The French armies, aided by U.S. and British divisions, began their counteroffensive  on July 18, reaching the Vesle River and recapturing Soissons. The Marne salient no longer  existed. Germany was forced to retreat. Ludendorff had bet his cache, played his cards and  lost. 
Major Goldberg was annoyed that he had failed in his mission to capture Dantzler. He  had stayed in Friedrichshafen for two days while the Swiss searched the shoreline of the lake,  but found no trace. His superiors wanted to remove him as head of security at Elmsdorf and  transfer him to an administrative slot elsewhere. Only the intervention of Buch prevented  this. 
Buch received a sealed brown envelope with a memo from Strasser: 
``I'm expecting Volant to launch not later than August 15. I am scheduled to  meet with Hindenburg, Ludendorff and members of the High Command August 
7. Be prepared to launch at that time.'' 
Buch hoped this would indeed be the actual date. He needed to get his family affairs in  order. He knew his daughter blamed him for the war and the loss of Eric, even though this  was irrational. He had spent fewer hours at home and more nights in the arms of Mariah 
Periot. He would be glad when the mission was over and the war ended. That Volant would  end the war, and in Germany's favor, was beyond doubt. 
From their tower perch, the Darhower's witnessed a strange ritual. For the last few  days, crews had worked to extend a railroad spur onto the main landing field. A locomotive  now pushed one of the flatcars carrying the large cylinders to the center of the field. LZ 
99 was slowly walked out of the shed and launched. The zeppelin made a slow circle and  lined itself up. Then, through a combination of airshipmanship and ground handling, the  giant ship lowered itself onto the cylinder, like a bird sitting on an egg. Later, the zeppelin  dumped ballast and rose with the cylinder attached to the belly, half in and half out, and  went to its hangar. The operation took over two hours. 

THE `EGG' 207 
Gerber's ship did the same without incident. 
Then it was LZ 101's turn. All went smoothly until the zeppelin began to squat on  the `egg'. Ziegler miscalculated and ordered too much gas vented. To compensate, Ziegler  ordered ballast dropped, and hundreds of gallons of water soaked the handlers below. An  inexperienced ground man mistook the liquid for gasoline and he yelled, ``Fuel!'' Other  handlers hearing this, dropped their lines and began to run. The zeppelin began to swing  dangerously, mere inches over the cylinder. Rounding up some men and encouraging others,  the petty offcers managed to get the craft under control and settle the ship atop the cylinder. 
Upon landing, a furious Ziegler leaped from the control gondola, strutted over to the  chief petty offcer in charge of the ground handlers: ``You stupid incompetent.'' 
``I'm sorry, sir, but when you dumped ballast. . . '' 
Ziegler backhanded the chief hard. ``Don't give me any of your insolence.'' 
The chief staggered back, blood trickling from his lip. 
``What is going on here?'' came the calm, but forceful voice of Captain Buch. 
He had quickly assessed the situation and knew the chief well. If he didn't defuse the  situation now the chief would act hastily, and if he struck Ziegler, no matter how much he  deserved it, it would be out of his hands. 
The chief snapped to attention --- a good sign. 
``This incompetent boob's men almost wrecked my ship.'' 
``Sir, I. . . '' the chief began. 
``Silence,'' Buch snapped. No matter what he decided, this was a no­win situation. 
The chief was smart enough to know that he could bring charges against the offcer and 
Ziegler could make life very nasty for the chief. A crowd was watching every move. 
``Colonel, can I see you a minute?'' 
The two men walked a few feet from the men. 
``You will have to apologize,'' Buch said softly. 
``By God, I will not, sir,'' Ziegler retorted. 
``It is a direct order,'' Buch said sharply. 
I will get this bastard, Ziegler thought. ``Yes sir,'' he said, sullenly. 
He walked to the chief. ``I apologize for losing my temper.'' 
The chief grinned inwardly. This is better than knocking his block off, he thought. 
``Yes, sir,'' he said. ``It could happen to anyone.'' 

Lawrence Reynolds 
``Worthless!'' a voice announced, as a brown manila envelope sailed through the air and  landed smack in front of Eric Dantzler, transformed once more into Lieutenant Colonel 
Lawrence Reynolds. 
``Not a good picture in the bunch.'' The voice belonged to Stanley Boyer. 
Reynolds sat back in the chair, deflated. The escape from Germany, the killing of the  policeman, the swim to Switzerland, and most important, the loss of Sherry, was all for  nothing. 
He had almost panicked when Rudolf Waltram spoke to him in the cabin in the moun­  tains. His Intelligence network in Germany was much more effcient than Eric realized, Boyer  and his people had gone into action. Waltram and other agents headed for Constance. The 
Dantzlers had departed to visit friends in France. 
In order to give the manhunt a chance to cool down, he was given ten days to recuperate. 
Waltram had brought a lot of food with him, along with three very mean looking men, who  patrolled the area. He had also brought papers and passports for a Michael Brenner. When  it was time to leave, the escapee shaved his head except for a horseshoe­shaped swath, which  was dyed black. Cotton was stuffed in his cheeks to alter the shape of his face, and he wore  thick glasses, just enough out of focus to make him squint, and an elevated sole that caused  a limp. Once safely in France, he was whisked to Paris, where he met with Stanley Boyer  and another man he had never seen named Douglas Adams. The two had questioned him  relentlessly while the precious can of film went off to be processed. All of them had eagerly  awaited the results. 
``What now?'' Reynolds asked meekly. 
``We have to gather together what we have, analyze it, and come up with conclusions.'' 
``Have the secretary order sandwiches and make a pot of coffee,'' Boyer ordered. ``A  lot of coffee. It's going to be a long night.'' 
The room was cramped, stuffy and hot. The British were represented by Colonel 
Robert Milkey and Major Barry Crist, the French by Colonel Michael Beliveau and Captain 
Hugo Reich. The Italians sent Major Mario Lucas. At the last minute the door opened and 
Reynolds saw a familiar face. 
``John Snider,'' he blurted out, as he grasped the man's hand, ``what have you been  up to?'' 
``Colonel to you,'' he said jokingly. ``I'm with Blackjack Pershing's personal staff.'' 
Adams presented an outline of how Operation Volant had come to their attention. His  agents' successes, the failures (including the death of Sydney Black) and a summary of what 
they knew positively up to this point. Then Reynolds, self­conscious in a borrowed uniform,  told what he had observed, complete with drawings and diagrams of the new zeppelins, and  the cylindrical object that he believed was to fit into the belly of the airships. 
Colonel Milkey said, ``Our sources tell us these objects were loaded into the zeppelins  yesterday'' 
Boyer sat in the back, biting his lip. The Brits obviously wanted to make the point  that they, not the Americans, were on top here. 
``I say,'' Crist asked, ``how much would they weigh?'' 
``Depends on what they hold,'' Reynolds explained, ``if compressed hydrogen, two or  three tons. If a liquid, like fuel, around ten to fifteen tons. If a solid explosive, even twenty  tons. It could be any of those,'' Reynolds shrugged. 
Boyer was the last to speak. 
``Gentlemen, we believe the large cylindrical object to be a combination fuel and hy­  drogen storage tank. The smaller bay is to house a bomb of perhaps of as two or three tons. 
We feel the Germans intend to cross the Atlantic and bomb the United States.'' 
``Is it possible?'' Major Lucas asked. 
``It's never been done but we think they will try it,'' Boyer answered. ``If you recall,  the L 59 flew over 4000 miles to supply General von Lettow Vorbeck in East Africa.'' 
``But that mission was a failure.'' 
``Yes,'' Crist pointed out, ``but only because we fed them misinformation.'' 
This was true. Vorbeck's German force had been trapped in German East Africa thou­  sands of miles from German supplies and was on the verge of surrender. Sixteen tons of sup­  plies were loaded on L 59, which was to make the trip nonstop from Bulgaria to Tanganyika,  and back. The mission was aborted only because the crew overheard British communiqu’es  saying Vorbeck had surrendered. Not only was this not true, but Vorbeck would continue  to fight and be the last German contingent to give itself up after the Armistice. The airship  had flown 4040 miles and remained in the air for over 95 hours. It could have stayed aloft  nearly three more days. 
``We think the Germans believe if the U.S. comes under direct attack, the Americans  will withdraw from the war,'' Boyer said. 
``Would you?'' Beliveau asked haughtily. 
``No,'' Boyer said confidently, ``I don't think so.'' 
``I think the opposite would happen. I think the Krauts would just make us mad.'' 
``Are you certain this is the plan?'' Colonel Milkey asked. 
``We have no absolute intelligence in this matter,'' Boyer replied. ``But it seems the  best scenario to fit the facts we have.'' 
``Then it is possible they have something completely different in mind?'' 
``Yes,'' Boyer admitted. ``We could be wrong.'' 

``I say,'' Major Crist stated, ``Obviously the Germans are up to something big.'' 
They looked at him to see his point. 
The major was in his glory. ``I say we bomb the bastards to hell and back. Then argue  about what they might have done.'' 

The Raid 
Buch was filled with a sense of foreboding as soon as he saw the dispatch motorcycle outside  his headquarters. It's rider looked as if he had ridden all night. 
Buch showed him his identification and signed for a manila envelope. 
``Shultz,'' he said to the clerk, ``get this man some food, and a bunk.'' 
The grimy, gray clad man muttered, ``Thank you, sir,'' and left. 
Buch turned on some lights and sat at his desk. There was no reason to expect the  envelope contained bad news. Maybe it was announcing the war was over, but somehow  that didn't feel right. It was worse than he imagined. 
He broke the seal, withdrew a single sheet of paper, and read: 
To: Captain Otto von Buch 
Commander, the 12th Naval Airship Squadron 
Elmsdorf. 
Sir, 
It is my sorry task to inform you of the loss of Airship L­70, commanded by Capt.  von Lossnitzer, off the coast of Scotland while engaging the enemy on August 5, 
1918. There were no survivors. 
Among those aboard was Frigate Captain Peter Strasser, Commander Naval 
Airship Division. 
Please pass this information to your offcers and men. 
Further information will be provided as it becomes available. 
This is a great loss to us all 
Signed Captain Paul Werther 
Commander, Naval Airship Division (acting) 
Nordholz 
Buch stared numbly at the paper. Strasser? Dead? It seemed impossible. Certainly  he had always been considered a Jonah. Nearly every mission he participated in ended in  failure, but no one ever considered his death. To Buch he had been a friend; he had visited 
his home, met his wife; ate, drank, joked with him. Buch knew, the heart of operation Volant  and the soul of the German Naval Airship Division, was floating face down in the cold North 
Sea. 
``Shultz,'' he yelled, ``inform all offcers I will meet with them at 0800.'' 
``Yes, sir,'' Shultz replied, wondering at the commander's expression. 
Of course, the meeting with Ludendorff and Hindenburg was postponed until Strasser's  successor was brought up to date on Volant. Captain Paul Werther had no knowledge of it  at all. 
On August 8, there was a memorial service attended by all hands, dedicated to the  memory of those lost aboard L­70, and especially to Captain Strasser. Buch knew the formal  religious ceremony held in the afternoon sun would be followed by an informal celebration  of life in Shed Ten that evening. Then the men would try to cleanse the wounds and ease  the pain in another way. 
On the same day to the south, near Amiens, the British Fourth Army and the French 
First Army attacked the German Eighteenth and Second armies. The well­mounted assault  caught the Germans off guard, forcing a withdrawal just short of a rout. Ludendorff would  bitterly declare August 8, the ``Black Day of the German Army.'' Bowing to the inevitable  he would say, ``The war must be ended!'' 
At 23­years­old, Major Ross Burton, son of an illiterate Welsh coal miner, was flight  operations offcer of Aerial Bombardment Group Ten, Royal Air Force, stationed outside the  little town of Neufchatel. Most of his fellow offcers bemoaned their fate being assigned to  bombers when fighter pilots got all the glory, but Burton was betting that after the war  bombers would become very important to the RAF. 
Dawn was just beginning to make its appearance in the eastern sky, although the thick  fog meant it only changed from black to dark gray. The pilots and crew of Group Ten headed  toward their briefing room. Inside the wooden shack, the arrangement of folding chairs and  a lectern gave the place the air of a small church. Over the past year, the little building  had heard a lot of whispered prayers. Rumors of a big mission had freely circulated during  breakfast at the mess hall. Burton was about to inform them just how true those rumors  were. He watched as the second hand of the clock jerked its way to 0600. ``Group,'' his  adjutant shouted. ``Attention!'' 
``Be seated,'' Burton told them. He then opened an envelope, removed the contents, and  read, ``Orders of the day, August 10, 1918. Aerial Bombardment Group Ten will proceed  to the airship facility at Elmsdorf, Germany, destroy the zeppelin sheds and the airships  within.'' 
Then, with the aid of a large pull­down map of western Europe and a wooden pointer,  he continued. 
``We are to rendezvous with sixteen Newport's of the 33rd Escadrille above Nancy,  then pick up sixteen SPADs of the American 24th fighter group, in the Metz area. These  will escort us to the German border where we are on our own. Over target we will drop  through the clouds and make our runs. There is a detachment of fighters at Elmsdorf, but 
we should catch them by surprise. No anti­aircraft guns. Then Huns are leery of having  them too close to their gasbags.'' 
He pinned up a poster­sized sketch, supplied by Reynolds, of the layout of the base. 
``All buildings are to be considered targets, but concentrate on these three sheds. They  contain zeppelins. If one starts to burn, don't get too close, or it will take you with it.'' 
If the primaries are hit, use the remaining bombs on the hydrogen producing plant  north of the base. You'll carry eight 250 pounders. The flight will be composed of all four  squadrons. '' 
This elicited a whistle from the men. Sixteen planes --- the largest raid they had ever  flown previously had only eight. 
They sat in stony silence as the weather offcer went through his paces. The aircrews  joked he had a rock hanging outside his window. If it moved, it was windy. If the rock was  wet, it was raining. If it was white, it was snowing. If you couldn't see the rock at all, it  was either foggy, or somebody had stolen the damn thing. 
Captain Blackmoor was almost a stick figure of a man with a thin pencil­line mustache. 
He began, ``This fog should lift within the hour. Although there will be a cloud layer  at approximately 4000 feet, we do not expect rain. The target should be covered in cloud  at 4000 feet, but visibility should be 5 to ten miles under that. You should have first­rate  weather for the mission.'' He managed a weak smile. His audience didn't believe a word of  it. 
Major Burton took over again. ``Engines start at 0700,'' he announced. ``Any ques­  tions?'' 
A young man from Liverpool raised his hand. ``Will there be any escort on the return  trip?'' 
The pilots were not concerned about aircraft inside Germany, missions there were so  rare. Flying over the front was another matter. That's where they were most likely to run  into German patrols. 
``Sorry, gentlemen, we'll be on our own on the trip home,'' Burton answered. ``Any  others?'' 
``All right men,'' he said, ``Let's have a good day.'' 
Blackmoor had struck again. Although the gray stillness lightened in the last half­  hour and it was possible to make out the aircraft parked alongside. It was impossible to see  any beyond that. The entire squadron waited, Burton sitting casually in the cockpit of his  giant twin­engined Vicker's Vimy bomber, coat and helmet undone, eyes closed, reminiscing  about a French girl with whom he had a very carnal experience over the weekend. His  bombardier and front gunner sat beside him working on the Times crossword. The rear  gunner was sitting in the little lean­to shack, a hundred feet away from the flight line that  served as a designated smoking area. Up and down the flight line, it was the same. Flight  and ground crewmen waiting for the signal to go. The signal would be a red flare fired from  the Operations building. But, no one could even see Ops, at the moment. 

The Vicker's Vimy bomber was the most recent design of the war, and Burton's  squadron was the first to receive them. Although none of the pilots had more than ten  flying hours in them, they were comfortable with the new planes. 
Suddenly the aircraft shivered in response to a gentle westerly breeze and, within  minutes, visibility had jumped from null, to about a quarter of a mile. It wouldn't be  long now. Burton called down to his crew chief to get the plane ready. The cry went up  and down the row of planes. The men in the smoke shack ground out their cigarettes and  crewmembers ran to their planes, as ground crew spun the propellers by hand to get the  engine oil circulating. Burton buttoned up his fur­lined overcoat, tightened the strap to his  helmet, connected his safety straps and adjusted his goggles. 
They saw the red flare sail through the still foggy air. ``Contact.'' 
The air was filled with the roar of engines and the smell of exhaust and hot oil. Up  and down the line, pilots gave a thumbs­up to signal they were ready. The Vimy slowly  started forward, gathering speed. Burton felt a rush of adrenaline as he pulled slightly on  the stick and the wheels left the ground. Almost instantly he was in the clouds, flying blind  as the aircraft gained altitude. Then it rose out into clear air, wispy clouds in the blue sky  above and a meringue below. One by one the other aircraft leaped, like dolphins, out of the  clouds and formed up on the leader. ``Oh, heavenly days,'' Burton recited, ``we soar like the  angels.'' 
Looking around at his charges, he noticed one missing, probably a ground abort. He  checked his compass and headed towards Nancy. The adrenaline rush subsided as the mission  fell into a routine of noise, cold, wind and boredom. His front gunner removed the cover  from the weapon and the same was done with the aft gun. Both fired a few shots to ensure  the guns operated properly and then hunkered down as far as possible to stay out of the  slipstream. As they approached the coordinates, they saw a small group of specks circling  round and round like a swarm of gnats. It should be their escort. 
As they closed the stubby silhouettes and roundels on the wings, showed they were the 
Newports. The little planes fell into formation above and to the left of the bombers. 
The bombers were already a half­hour late and the fighters would have used a consid­  erable amount of fuel waiting. Over Metz there was no sign of the American squadron at  all. Orders may have become twisted, or they may have given up and returned to base. 
The bombers were crossing into enemy territory, and this was the time they were in  the most danger. The Newport leader took up position alongside and signaled to Burton  that his planes were low on fuel and had to return to base. Burton waved his thanks. He  was disappointed and angry, but you couldn't argue with the law of physics: if there wasn't  enough gas, that was it. They were on their own now. 
Blackmoor had been wrong about the cloud cover. He predicted it would be solid,  instead there were holes through which the ground was clearly visible and through which  they were easily seen from the ground. An hour to go to target. Burton watched as little  bits of Germany appeared in the gaps of cloud. The Vimys flew peacefully over German  towns, farms, fields and. . . .German schools. 

Bruno Stienman was a typical eleven­year­old. He played with frogs, pulled girl`s  pigtails and, generally, acted like any eleven­year boy as found anywhere in the world. But  he did have a passion. Asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he always said: ``A  flyer.'' He had never been up in a plane, but had logged many hours in the red triplane built  out of an old barn door and some crates behind his father's barn. When Major Goldberg  spoke at his school and handed out aircraft identification cards, the boy assumed the duties  of the school's chief `observer', a role he took very seriously. 
So, when he heard the drone of aircraft engines above the school, he was out of his  seat in a shot, much to Fraulien Biddlehafner's dismay. 
She glared at the other students as she marched toward the door. He was standing,  card in hand, staring at the sky. 
``Vicker's Vimys,'' he announced, noticing her presence and pointing upwards. 
``Go back to your desk.'' 
``But look,'' the boy pleaded. ``Vimys, just like the picture.'' 
She finally looked up and saw the cross like shapes high in the sky. ``See,'' the boy said  excitingly, pointing at the silhouette on the card. She had to admit there was a resemblance. 
``But it couldn't be,'' she thought. `` Joshua was just trying to build morale, wasn't he?'' 
She ran into the school and came out scribbling furiously. ``Take this to the constable  and tell him to do exactly what it says, immediately.'' She tore off the paper and handed it  to the boy. ``Run,'' she said. Little Bruno ran as he never had before. 
``We have a message from Knobleholf, sir,'' Grabenski said, handing a piece of paper  to Goldberg. ``Telephone call from the constable.'' 
He read quickly: 
Five Vicker's Vimys observed heading due north at 8:35 am 
Biddlehafner 
``Alert Ladouceur,'' he ordered, ``Relay the message. Tell him I think it's genuine.'' 
Ladouceur gathered his pilots in a corner of the hanger. Ground crewmen were already  pushing eleven Fokker D­VII's and five Fokker triplanes out onto the field. He drew a map  in the dirt with a long screwdriver, a circle indicating the base, and a line for the path of  the approaching bombers. 
``We have about forty minutes. The report said five, but there could be more. So  watch out. They'll probably drop through the clouds twenty or so kilometers from the base  to make their runs.'' 
``Rudy, I want you to take your five D­VIIs, fly southwest for about fifteen minutes  under the clouds, then turn due east. When you are directly south of the base, turn north.'' 
He looked at his second in command, Rudy Zimmerman. ``You should catch them in the  rear and get any stragglers.'' 

``Herman, your group should take off ten minutes after the rest of us and fly in a oval  pattern under the clouds just south of the base. Don't go any farther than ten kilometers  from the base. The triplanes are more maneuverable and can handle any bombers that slip  under the cloud cover.'' 
He stood up and the rest followed. ``I'll take the other five D­VIIs with me,'' he  announced. 
As he outlined his strategy he was excited and it was contagious. He felt this was not  a false alarm. 
``Gentlemen,'' he told his men, ``if one bomb falls on this base, I will consider us  failures. Our job is not to shoot down British planes, although that would be nice,'' There  was laughter, ``but to protect the base.'' 
He glanced at his watch. ``Let's mount up,'' he said. ``Good luck and good hunting.'' 
Checking his watch, Burton determined he would begin to descend into the clouds in  exactly ten minutes. If his calculations were correct, the target should be right in front of  them. A quick attack, then back into the clouds and back home in time for tea. There was  no reason why he shouldn't think that way. Except for the delayed takeoff, the mission had  been a piece of cake, a regular milk run. 
He looked again to the aircraft to the right and left of him. He felt the responsibility  of command. ``God,'' he silently prayed, ``I hope I have it all right.'' 
Ahead, unseen, Ladouceur, leading his flight of Fokkers, had started to circle south­  southeast of the base. He wanted to make the first pass from above. The position they  circled was carefully chosen so the gunners of the Vimys would have to look directly into the  sun to see them. 
The Fokkers were long, angular craft painted a lozenge camouflage pattern in various  shades of gray, blue and green that gave them a reptilian look. Ladouceur's aircraft was  decorated with his family's crest on both sides of the cockpit, a shield with two gold lightning  bolts and a black hawk's head with blood­red eyes. Beneath was written his family motto  in gold: ``Alis volant proprius,'' He flies by his own wings. 
One of the other pilots signaled frantically and pointed. Ladouceur looked in that  direction and saw the tiny specks that were the bombers were coming into view. 
He reached out of the cockpit with his left hand and gently patted the shield for luck. 
Then he made a chopping motion, so all could see him and turned the nose of the Fokker  towards the enemy, the others following. As he reached up to arm his guns, he muttered a  silent prayer: ``God, I hope I have it all right.'' 
Ladouceur glanced at the shadows cast by the struts under his wings. He was taught  when the shadows pointed straight forward the sun was directly at your back. He sighted  through the cross­hair ring mounted between the guns and aimed the Fokker at the Vimy  closest to his line of flight, the second aircraft his best shot. He saw the two gunners point  at him and start to aim. ``Too late,'' he said and pressed the trigger. The two Maxims  barked and the Vimy's right engine immediately started to come apart followed by a bright  orange­red flash as the right section of the wing tore off. 

``Jesus Christ,'' Burton yelled, as he fought to control his aircraft against the blast of  hot air that swept over him. He saw the gray­green blur disappear under him and a quick  glance told him there were more. He frantically signaled to the rest of the flight to dive into  the safety of the clouds and pushed the stick forward. 
Ladouceur was momentarily stunned by the violence of the bomber's demise, realizing  the bomb­load must have exploded. Now he saw the lead plane of the left echelon in his  sights and opened fire. Although he could see the bullets strike the fuselage and sparks fly  as the bullets glanced off the iron bombs, the plane did not catch fire, or explode. Instead, it  started to roll to the left in a most leisurely fashion. The pilot of the bomber just behind it  was watching the approaching fighter and never saw it coming. There was a loud collision,  clearly audible over the noise of engines, as the two giants seemed to embrace each other like  mating insects, and plunge earthwards. Ladouceur had to give his plane full right rudder to  avoid the falling wreckage. As he did so a something rushed by him only mere meters from  his plane --- a man, arms and legs flailing the air, eyes wide with terror. Ladouceur would  never get the scream out of his mind. 
Six Vimys had been destroyed in the first deadly pass. Four of the bombers were  turning back, two of these trailing smoke, and dumping their bombs. Ladouceur got the  image of a terrified animal loosening its bowels. Signaling to the other pilots amid this  frenzy was useless, he could only hope they would see him and follow. 
Burton yelled for his bombardier to set up the bombsight that was little more than  a small telescope mounted to a sextant. He kept the clouds just above the upper wing so  that if they were attacked, he could quickly pull up into the nebulous sanctuary. Looking  quickly to the right and left, he spotting the Triplanes less than a mile away. As the other 
Vimy's dropped out of the clouds Burton realized they hadn't been attacked by some rogue  patrol, but were victims of a cleverly laid ambush. He was furious. Looking ahead in the  fuzzy distance, he could now see the zeppelin base less than three miles away. ``By God,''  he yelled aloud, ``we're going to get them.'' 
There was no way the German planes could catch him before he was over the target. 
The sheds were growing larger; they were now only two miles from target, now a mile. His  bombardier had his eye glued to the sight. They couldn't possibly miss. . . . 
Ladouceur plunged through the bottom of the clouds and saw he was ahead, below,  and to the right of, the lead Vickers on the final stage of its bomb run. He was in the wrong  position, altitude and angle for a good shot. Instinctively, he rolled the plane on its side  and pulled the stick back as far as it would go, throwing the Fokker into a tight left turn. 
He could hear its frame creak from the stress and feel the centrifugal force pressing on his  body. There wasn't time to aim the guns, just hold the trigger down, firing wildly, until they  jammed and would fire no more. 
Burton feared the German was going to ram them when he saw the twinkling coming  from the machine guns. He watched in horror as his bombardier was thrown against the side  of the gun tub, blood all over the back of his head. Then something hit him in the head,  hard. His vision suddenly became myopic as bright specks danced in his eyes, and he fought  darkness. 

His numbed brain screamed as his hand threw the bomb lever. Without the weight of  the bombs, the plane leaped into the clouds and was immediately wrapped in a white­gray  shroud. The right engine threatened to shake itself loose. He turned off the ignition and as  the propeller stopped spinning, he could see one blade missing six inches of length. Taking  off a glove, he felt his head and found a large gash in his scalp. Whether caused by the flying  debris from the propeller or a bullet bouncing off his skull, he did not know. His yelled for  rear gunner, but received no answer. He could hear the engines of the Fokkers as they dived  in and out of the clouds searching for him. 
Ladouceur was last to land, having made sure all the others had been signaled to return  to base. As he taxied the Fokker to its place in front of the hanger, he saw the rest of Jasta 
27 talking excitedly, flying hands imitating the combat of moments ago for the ground crew  and each other. There was an ambulance leaving the area. He sat still until the propeller  putt­putted to a stop. The crew chief ran up before he even started to get out of the cockpit. 
``Congratulations, sir,'' he yelled enthusiastically. ``Good shooting!'' He beamed with pride  at the accomplishments of `his' plane. 
``Had a close one yourself, sir,'' the crew chief said, pointing to the fuselage just aft of  the cockpit where there were a number of holes. Ladouceur just shook his head. He hadn't  known they were there. 
``Any casualties?'' Ladouceur asked. 
``Herman may have suffered brain damage,'' his second­in­command replied with a grin. 
``He took a bullet in his bottom!'' 
Goldberg also came up to shake Ladouceur's hand. ``I told you it would work,'' he  shouted. 
``Yes, you did.'' 
Ladouceur had three confirmed kills, but he just felt tired. ``Admit it,'' he thought to  himself, ``you're getting too old for this.'' He was twenty­three. 
The day was a brilliant success. Twelve British bombers were smoldering in the German  countryside and the three that escaped were seriously damaged. None of the bombs had fallen  on the base, but the day was not without tragedy. Burton's bombs had fallen wild. . . ripping  into Shed Ten, killing the owner and three of the girls, and injuring others, among them, 
Mariah Periot. 
Far to the south, at Neufchatel, the ground crew waited for the sound of engines. The  estimated arrival time had come and gone, but there was a good half­hour margin of error. 
The base commander and the executive offcer walked out to the flight line to hear first hand  the status of the mission. One of the men shouted as he spotted the solitary speck in the  distance. 
The big plane landed poorly, bouncing a number of times before it turned and taxied  toward the hangar. 
The plane was undamaged, the guns had not even been fired. The pilot, a young man  barely twenty, was on his knees crying loudly, his head in his hands. ``You bloody coward,''  the bombardier was screaming at him, ``yellow bastard.'' 

``What's going on?'' The base commander arrived. The bombardier looked at him and  said: ``At the first sign of a Fokker, he ran like a scared rabbit.'' 
Heads turned at the sound of another engine. A solitary aircraft came into view,  obviously in trouble. Only Burton being an extraordinary pilot had kept it in the air. All  the way home the aircraft had been on the edge of stalling, flying just fast enough to hold  itself in the air. 
Burton himself was in bad shape, his head throbed unmercifully, and his right eye had  swollen shut. If he relaxed even a little, the plane threatened to go out of control. Now he  could see the windsock at the top of the main hangar. He should come around and approach  from the west, but he didn't think the aircraft would withstand a hard turn and he hadn't  the altitude for a gradual one. He would have to risk the crosswind. A hundred feet up, he  cut the ignition on the left engine to equalize drag, put the nose down to increase speed,  then yanked it back just before the wheels touched. The plane bounced once hard, causing  him to inadvertently allow the stick to move to the right, lifting the left wing slightly. The  crosswind got under the wing, forcing the left higher and the right lower, until it struck the  ground. The shock tore the already weakened wing from the aircraft. The loss of weight on  the right caused the left wing to plunge into the ground, lifting the fuselage onto its nose  and slamming it down hard on its back. 
In seconds, Burton was upside down, still in the seat being pushed into the ground  by the wreckage overhead. He was saturated in pain and the fear of burning to death. He  couldn't move his right arm and reached with his left for a small hunting knife attached  to his leg. With this, he hacked at the seat straps to release himself. The smell of smoke  was sharp as the straps dropped him on his head. With the knife, he started to slice a hole  through the fabric, and used his feet to push the wooden stringers, which broke easily. He  tried wiggling his body through the hole backwards. Pain shot through his right arm. Two  bones stuck out of the skin just below the elbow and his lower arm and hand was tangled in  control cables. He tried pulling free, but no use. He could see flame and feel heat, and smell  his hair start to smolder. Remembering he still had the knife in his left hand, he looked at  his arm. There was only one thing he could do. 
Little Bruno Stienman dashed out of the classroom when he heard the sound of an  aircraft engine close by. He was amazed to see a black and yellow striped plane landing in  the adjacent field. By the time it taxied up to the school Fraulien Biddlehafner and her  pupils were there to greet it. 
Two men climbed out of the aircraft, a two­seat Albatross, used by Jasta 27 as an  odd­jobber. The man with one arm they already knew, and Fraulien Biddlehafner had to  restrain herself from running and throwing her arms around him. 
``Hello, children,'' Goldberg announced. ``This is Major Andre Ladouceur, the com­  mander of Jasta 27.'' 
Ladouceur took off his helmet and stood shyly. 
``Because of you and Fraulien Biddlehafner, '' Goldberg continued, ``we have scored a  great victory for the Fatherland. We want to congratulate you.'' 

As Ladouceur handed out little tin medals they had Darhower make for them, the  schoolmarm beckoned Bruno. She put her hands on his shoulders and declared, ``This is the  young man who identified the airplanes.'' 
Bruno was about ready to burst with pride. 
Ladouceur told him, ``Good eyes, I could use you in my squadron.'' The grin threatened  to break something. ``What do you want to be when you grow up?'' Ladouceur asked. 
``A flyer, sir.'' 
``Ever been up in an airplane?'' Bruno shook his head. 
``Well I think you should,'' Ladouceur said, ``hop in.'' 

Falstaff 
Behind a large oak desk, they saw the mustached, chiseled face of General Black Jack Per­  shing. As the General rose, Reynolds gave him his salute, which was returned. John Boyer  merely shook his hand, while Colonel John Snider sat in a chair beside another Colonel 
Reynolds didn't recognize. 
``Sorry, we're late,'' Boyer apologized. 
Pershing said, ``I understand Paris. I think the only reason the Germans haven't beaten  these French is because French ineffciency is beyond the Germans comprehension. But don't  repeat that!'' 
The general introduced the offcers. ``John, you know, and this is Colonel Billy 
Mitchell,'' he said. Reynolds had heard of Mitchell, who was in command of the Ameri­  can air forces in Europe. The General motioned them to chairs and told his aid to bring  coffee. ``And tell Scott to come in.'' 
``So you're the spy I've been hearing about,'' Pershing said to Reynolds. 
Reynolds felt a little uncomfortable. ``Yes, sir,'' he managed to say. 
``What do the Germans think about us entering the war?'' Pershing asked. 
``They don't think much of our fighting ability,'' he answered truthfully, ``but they are  afraid of our numbers.'' 
``So I gather,'' the general remarked. ``Our allies feel the same way. They hope if we  absorb enough bullets, the Germans will run out of ammunition and the real soldiers can  take over. '' 
The door opened and a man walked in who was introduced as Major Derrick Scott of  the Royal Army, Liaison for British intelligence. 
``I have been asked to brief you gentlemen on the Elmsdorf raid two days ago,'' he said  looking grimly embarrassed. ``Sixteen Vimys were assigned the task. One aborted, twelve  were lost over the target with all hands, one crashed behind enemy lines and the crew was  captured. Two made it back to base, but one of those crashed on landing and only the pilot  survived. All told, 38 killed, three prisoner and one gravely injured. Although there was  damage to some civilian structures, the zeppelin base was untouched.'' 
``I take it there will be no further attempt?'' Boyer asked. 
``Correct,'' Scott replied. ``It is obvious the Germans were aware we were coming.'' 
``This affair is why we are here, gentlemen,'' Pershing said. ``The French see no danger  to France and little chance of the zeppelins succeeding in crossing the Atlantic. The English  are now taking pretty much the same stance. The ball is being tossed into our court.'' 

Pershing paused to light his pipe. ``I'll be frank. I think we have the Krauts beaten  and the war will be over by the end of the year,'' he said. ``I also believe the chances of a  zeppelin flying all the way across the Atlantic to bomb America are pretty damn slim.'' He  poked the stem of his pipe in the air to emphasize his next words: ``But, even if there is only  a slim chance they can succeed, we must at least try to stop them.'' 
``I want to set up a special detachment to intercept the zeppelins as they begin an 
Atlantic crossing. You say the optimum course would cross southern England. We happen  to have a training base at Falstaff for incoming pilots. Colonel Mitchell and I have worked  on the details.'' 
``I have a number of veterans pilots in need of a less. . . .stressful assignment,'' Colonel 
Mitchell said. ``They'd be perfect.'' 
``Unless we keep aircraft in the air at all times, there is no way of knowing when they  intend to fly,'' Reynolds spoke. 
``That will be my job,'' Scott said, ``We have contacts at Elmsdorf. We will be able to  tell you when they are ready to launch.'' 
``You have people at Elmsdorf?'' Reynolds asked in surprise. ``Who?'' 
``I'm afraid I can't say,'' the major smiled. 
August 15, 1918 
``Monstrous!'' Captain Paul Werther, slamming a hand down on the outline of Oper­  ation Volant. 
Buch was angry at his response. 
``But do I have your support?'' he asked. 
``If I had been in this from the beginning, no,'' Werther replied. ``You and Strasser  have gone too far to turn back now. I have to support you.'' 
``It will win the war for Germany,'' Buch said simply. 
``Yes,'' Captain Werther said sadly, ``I wish it had not come to this.'' 
``Believe me,'' Buch said, ``I do too.'' 
Reynolds' first impression of Falstaff Aerodrome was of a very gloomy place. The two  hangers needed a coat of paint and their roofs repaired, as did the barracks, mess hall and  operations building. The twenty­acre field still had sheep grazing on it, and there was no  activity to be seen. The base had been used by the RAF in the early part of the war, but  abandoned in favor of aerodromes closer to London. At first it was used as a training base  by the Americans but that task had been moved closer to the front. It was now kept as  an emergency field in case the Americans had to quit the continent, and had only a small  number of troops stationed there. It's only contribution to the present war was a listening  station that monitored enemy radio messages. 
The sun was starting to set as Reynolds turned the little olive drab painted Model T  onto the dirt road that led to the field. He had to blow the horn a couple of times in order 
to waken to rouse the guard at the base entrance. 
``Where can I find Colonel Snider?'' Reynolds asked. 
``Who?'' The man, a corporal, replied. 
It had been a long, boring, dusty trip. ``Corporal,'' he snapped, ``I believe someone  must have told you that you salute offcers and address them as sir!'' 
``Yes, sir,'' the man said, snapping to attention and saluting. ``I think you'll find 
Colonel Snider in the Ops building, to the right of the hangars.'' 
``Thank you, corporal,'' Reynolds said, returning the salute, ``and if I catch you sleeping  on duty again, you'll be digging latrines with a spoon until the war's over.'' 
As the sun set darkness crept across the land accompanied by a light mist. Reynolds  aimed the Ford at a fuzzy glowing light bulb hanging over a green wooden door in the  building the guard pointed out. Reynolds glimpsed an airplane in one of the hangers and a  man working on it as he drove by. He parked the car, walked to the green door, opened it  and entered a dark hallway. Inside it was as gloomy as outside. The only sign of life he saw  was a crack of light at the bottom of one of the doors. Reynolds knocked and was told to  enter, and there sat Colonel Snider. 
``Welcome to Falstaff, Lance,'' Snider said, rising and shaking his hand. 
``I'm glad to be here, I guess,'' Reynolds said. ``Where is everybody?'' 
``Well, there's you, me and Jenny.'' 
``Jenny?'' 
``My secretary,'' Snider smiled. ``Jenny,'' he called. 
Jenny entered from the adjoining room. Reynolds quickly appreciated the long red  hair, ruddy cheeks and cute slightly upturned nose. ``How do you do?'' He stammered. 
``I do very well,'' she said with an impish twinkle in her eyes. ``Here's a live one,'' she  thought, attracted to his shy, boyish manner. 
``If you want, we can go over to the hangar and meet the other part of our contingent,'' 
Snider suggested. 
Reynolds shrugged, ``Sure.'' 
``Do you want to go along Jenny?'' Snider asked. 
``Instead of staying in this gloomy old building alone?'' She laughed. ``I'll get my  things.'' 
Sitting beside her in the Ford later was acutely aware of her presence. He had not  really thought about any woman but Sherry since he had left Germany. 
As they headed toward the hanger Reynolds passed on the way in, Snider filled him in  on the rest of the contingent. ``Lieutenant Swaybeck, the base commander and his twenty  men are probably in the Service Club by now, except for the guys at the listening post and  the wide­awake guard I'm sure you met.'' 

As they got closer to the hanger they could hear a tenor voice singing, ``I am the perfect  model of a modern major general. . . '' The music stopped abruptly as they entered.. 
``Major O'Reily?'' Snider called out. 
``Ah, yes and here I am,'' came a thick Irish brogue from the other side of the aircraft. 
The figure that appeared wiping the grease from his hands, would cause anyone to  smile. He was barely five foot four inches tall, topped with flaming red hair and a round face  that sported sparkling deep green eyes, a huge orange­red handlebar mustache that spiraled  twice at the ends and slightly protruding teeth that gave his face the overall look of a large  rabbit, If he'd added a red nose, he would have made a passable clown and his personality  seemed to match that assessment. 
``Major Jonathan T. O'Reily,'' he said with a sweeping bow in lieu of a salute,`` At  your service, sir.'' 
There was a sound at the rear of the plane. ``And that would be Sergeant Harold 
Maravich, a bo­hunk to be sure, but an adequate mechanic.'' 
``Goddamn mick,'' muttered the voice from the tail. 
``Hey, there are colonels here,'' O'Reily shouted. 
``Goddamn mick, sir,'' the voice muttered again. 
``You didn't tell me you would be escorting a Celtic queen,'' O'Reily said, as he kissed 
Jenny's hand and then gave her a wink. ``Major Johnny O'Reily,'' he announced, ``and I am  your slave.'' 
``Johnny, I want you to meet Colonel Reynolds,'' Snider said. ``He's the man in charge  of this operation.'' 
``I am?'' 
O'Reily explained that the sergeant and he had flown in with the two seat SPAD XI  to check out the base and make arrangements for food, lodging and such. The next day the  maintenance personnel and equipment would arrive, and the day after that the twelve SPAD 
XIII's that comprised the rest of the squadron. Lance wondered how they would adapt to  such primitive conditions. 
``Compared to where we're coming from, this place is Atlantic City, and besides, all  the ladies speak English --- sort of.'' 
The SPAD XI was adorned with an emblem of a smiling leprechaun standing in front  of a rainbow ending in a pot of gold. Reynolds was surprised a combat aircraft could be  kept so clean. ``Your plane, Major?'' he asked. 
``Good God, no,'' came the quick response, ``It's the squadron hack. We call it `the tub'  cause it flies like a bathtub. When our SPAD XIII's arrive, I'll show you a fighter plane.'' 
O'Reily glanced over at Sergeant Maravich, exchanging a silent question: ``God, what  kind of aviation ignoramus do we have here?'' 

The SPADs 
By the end of August the war still ebbed and flowed, attack and counter attack, life and  death. Hard­pressed everywhere, Germany tried to hold back the inevitable. Ludendorff  and the High Command who had been on the verge of defeat only weeks before, started to  talk of new assaults. But now their thoughts were of winning an honorable peace. 
The men of Elmsdorf were exhibiting boredom and defeatism. Morale was at an all­  time low. Buch never imagined how much the men missed the now­destroyed Shed Ten,  although they took their business elsewhere it was not the same. By the same token, Buch  never imagined how much he would miss Mariah Periot. Although he had made several  inquiries, he still didn't know if she was dead or alive. It was as if the earth had opened up  and swallowed her 
The bombing raid, although a great victory for the Germans, had come close enough  to add to the general trepidation. Most of the offcers knew just how much luck was involved  and if the RAF tried again, the outcome could be different. 
Although he didn't want either to expend resources or risk the possibility of accident, 
Buch ordered a series of shakedown flights. Every time a zeppelin took to the air it was  noted by the Darhowers who promptly dispatched a bird to England with a message to be  decoded and telephoned the base at Falstaff. 
True to his word, the rest of Major O'Reily's squadron arrived and had settled in. 
Reynolds went to greet the arriving planes, He noticed the difference between the SPAD XI  that Major O'Reily arrived in and the SPAD XIII's that equipped the rest of the squadron. 
Although similar in appearance, the short squat little fighter radiated menace. They were  dirty, streaked with mud, oil and smoke. ``We don't pull a flyable aircraft off duty to wash  it,'' O'Reily explained. Some were still doted with bullet holes patched with small fabric  squares with a skull and crossbones printed on them in white. 
Although it could be said O'Reily ran a very democratic organization, he was all  business when it came to flying. Even so, his men worshipped him. 
Reynolds and Snider set up an operations room where everything they knew or sus­  pected concerning Operation Volant was posted up. One wall had a six­foot­long side­view  drawing of LZ 99 with its tank in place. Question marks covered the forward bay. 
Except for occasional aircraft scrambles in response to the shakedown flights which  never left Germany, life in Falstaff lapsed into routine. 
``Why such a big tank?'' Snider asked one day as they studied the drawing. ``I mean  the African Zeppelin didn't have to carry such a large amount of fuel. 

THE SPADS 226 
Reynolds shrugged: ``They won't have any chance of refueling at sea. Besides, what  else could it be?'' 
``Well, countess,'' Werner Snipe announced, as he rubbed his hands in anticipation, 
``the La Baroness is yours.'' 
Gari thought: ``You would almost think the bald bureaucrat was going to keep the  money.'' 
``Thank you for your assistance,'' she said, handing him the check. 
``If you like, I'll talk to Fraulien Orleans about vacating.'' 
``Shut down a profitable whorehouse,'' Gari smiled. ``You must be mad.'' 
The past month had gone well for Ammi Orleans and her girls. As the war deteriorated,  it seemed the soldiers were even more hungry for alcohol and women, and many seemed  determined to spend every Pfennigs they had. 
Ammi was not quite sure where she stood with Countess Adelgard Klopsic, who now  sat down in a chair as if it she owned the place --- which she did. 
``Ammi,'' she began, ``I'll be honest with you. I bought this place with my own money. 
The `company' is not involved. I still want the film and trust this establishment will no  longer be involved with the `company's' unpleasant activities.'' 
``I was under the impression the business would be under my name,'' Ammi said. 
``From a legal point of view and given the times, I think a partnership is in order. 
Tomorrow we will see my solicitor and draw up the papers.'' Gari answered. ``This would  be best for all involved. Besides, I think you're doing just fine. Just keep doing what you're  doing.'' 
Ammi looked at her. ``Agreed,'' she said. She left the room and returned a moment  later with the film, which she handed to Gari. She held out her hand to shake on the deal. 
Gari held her hand longer than necessary. ``And do you now have a little free time?'' 
``I guess for my partner it would be free,'' Ammi replied. 
``Do you think that blond girl could join us?'' 
``Of course,'' Ammi said. ``It will be a pleasure working you.'' 
Sergeant Grabenski and Major Goldberg had begun the long climb to the roof of Shed 
Seven. ``Private Slovak,'' the sergeant said, ``seems to know what he's talking about.'' 
Major Goldberg was uncomfortable with heights, and the idea of walking about on the  roof of the building didn't appeal to him. The soldier was waiting in the small structure  built there. ``The sergeant says you have found who is spying on us,'' Goldberg began. 
``I haven't actually caught them spying, sir, but if you direct your glasses to that small  steeple,'' the pimply­faced boy pointed at the belfry above Darhower's shop, ``you'll see it  right after the ship launches.'' 
Below them the great bulk of the zeppelin rested on the grass like an incredible cater­  pillar. They waited until it drifted slowly into the air on its routine maintenance flight.``Now,  sir,'' the private said, his voice excited. 

THE SPADS 227 
Goldberg focused the glasses on the tower. There was nothing to see except a few birds  circling the building. 
``See how most of the birds quickly come home to roost, but focus on that white one. 
The one closest to the woods.'' 
The private put down his glasses. ``Carrier pigeon,'' he explained, ``my father used to  raise them.'' 
Goldberg watched the bird until it disappeared from view. There was definitely a  purpose and a direction. 
``Good work, Corporal,'' Goldberg said. 
``Private, sir. I'm only a private.'' 
``Not any more,'' Goldberg told him. 
``Darhower!'' Buch said incredulously. ``Good lord, is everybody a spy? Are you sure?'' 
``I positioned a man in the woods with a shotgun the last time you launched,'' Goldberg  replied. ``He managed to shoot down a bird and found this attached to the leg.'' 
He handed over a small capsule enclosing a strip of encrypted paper. 
``Should I arrest him?'' Goldberg asked. 
``No, not yet,'' Buch said. ``They'll just bring in someone else. Let's play with them  for awhile.'' 

Buch's Plan 
For the next few weeks the ground crew at Elmsdorf suspected someone had lost his mind. 
Zeppelins were pushed out of sheds, and then pushed back in again. Half the fighter squadron  left and then returned two days later. Zeppelins 99, 100 and 101 flew to Nordholz, and the  base appeared abandoned. 
As each event occurred, the Darhowers would dutifully note it and dispatch a bird for 
England, where the information would be deciphered and relayed to Falstaff, where Reynolds'  men scratched their heads and wondered, what the hell was going on? 
Buch had serious doubts the mission would ever be flown. Finally, on September 17, a  dispatch came. The commanders and their first offcers were to report to Berlin to finalize 
Operation Volant. 
Rumors flew in Berlin: `Peace is at hand'; `The Kaiser will abdicate'; `An armistice  will be signed before the end of the year. . . the month. . . the week.' 
Dressed in their best uniforms, the six men exited two taxis in front of the headquarters  building. All had been aware of a certain feeling in the air. Once they would have been  looked upon as national heroes, just because of those uniforms. Now they sensed a subtle  hostility from the people. Many believed the war was lost and it was the military's fault. 
Others believed they had suffered shortages and deprivations and this too was the military's  fault. 
They entered a room with a long table down its center at which sat the greatest  military minds in Germany. The High Command sat on one side and representatives of the 
Navy, including Captain Werther, sat on the other. Buch was as amazed as the others to  see, off to the side, so as to appear unobtrusive, no less a figure than Field Marshall Count  von Hindenburg. The old warrior was Germany's most respected military figure and was  offcially commander of the entire German war effort, except the power and the brains were 
Ludendorff's. 
``Your base narrowly escaped a bombing attack?'' a general named Heiseman asked. 
``Yes, sir,'' Buch answered, ``but the squadron defending the base, and the security  warning system performed magnificently.'' 
``Still, considering the investment we have there, it may be prudent to increase defenses  around the base,'' the general said. 
``Sir, if I may be blunt,'' Buch said testily, ``our best defense is to get on with this  operation. As each day goes by our chances of success grow less.'' 
It was clear Heiseman was not pleased with the tone of his voice. 

``General,'' Buch continued, ``Volant can win this war. Not bring us to an armistice  where the Allies will castrate us. Not bring us to an 'honorable' peace. Victory. All we are  asking for is for you to let us do the job.'' 
``Victory, yes,'' Hindenburg's voice rang out, ``but at what price, young man? At what  price?'' 
``And what of the price of defeat, sir?'' 
There was a quiet gasp at the impertinence of the man, but having lived the last few  months staring defeat in the face, the Field Marshall only muttered; ``Yes, there is that,  too.'' 
Colonel Ziegler and his first offcer were absent when the zeppelin offcers met for  dinner. 
``Damn it all, Otto,'' Werther said, as he dug a piece of lobster out of its shell. ``I agree  with you, but you shouldn't have come on so strongly.'' 
``It's time someone did,'' Buch replied. ``They have been screwing up since the begin­  ning, trying to fight a modern war with ancient weapons.'' 
``Yes,'' Werther nodded, ``but these men have the Kaiser's ear and he will make the  final decision.'' 
Across town, Colonel Ziegler was dining with General Heiseman at his residence. Heise­  man was a Junker aristocrat, and was only interested in a purely army viewpoint on this  zeppelin business. 
``So, Colonel, you think this scheme will actually work?'' 
``Yes, sir,'' Ziegler replied. ``It is unscrupulous, but I believe it will work, except. . . ''  he let the sentence hang. 
``It's Captain Buch, sir,'' Ziegler said cautiously. ``A brilliant tactician but. . . .I question  his fitness to command.'' 
``How so?'' The general asked. 
``I hesitate to speak of such matters,'' Ziegler said, ``but the commander has been under  considerable stress. It has taken its toll.'' 
Ziegler reached over to his briefcase and withdrew the documents Goldberg wrote  months ago. ``The head of security at Elmsdorf and has done a background check. These are  his findings.'' He failed to mention Goldberg did the investigation on his orders and many  of the conclusions were no longer valid. 
The general thumbed through the documents: cowardice, poor leadership qualities,  bad morale, mistrust and an unusual need for a certain prostitute, it all leapt off the pages  at him. 
``There was also the incident with the spy,'' Ziegler put in. 
``Spy!?'' 

``Yes,'' Ziegler spoke as if it were a tragic incident in the life of an old friend. ``We  had a spy at Elmsdorf for years. He and Buch became very close. The man even proposed  marriage to Buch's daughter, and of course had free run of his house.'' 
Heiseman wasn't sure how much of this was true, but it was worth checking out. 
``I only bring these incidents to the General's attention because of the importance of  the mission. I do not want to be considered disloyal. But the mission, you understand?'' 
``Yes,'' the General said smiling, ``I understand.'' 
``But,'' he thought, ``if we throw Buch out, you'll take his place. If this mission wins  the war, you'll be the most famous man in Germany. '' 
``You've done the right thing, Colonel, in bringing this to my attention,'' Heiseman  said.'' 
As he looked at Ziegler's smiling face his mind said, ``But you'll never work for me,  you bastard.'' 
Across the Channel Buch's tactics were being felt. For every action at Elmsdorf there  was a reaction at Falstaff. If a zeppelin flew, the aircraft flew. At first the men of O'Reily's  command thought the whole assignment a lark. They were out of combat and only a short  ride into London. It was a great assignment. One they used to dream about after they  landed a shot up plane, buried a dead comrade, or saluted one who had gone down on the  other side of no­man's land. But they were soldiers, and the idea of flying milk run missions  against imaginary foes while their comrades flew real missions against real enemies, started  to wear thin. 
O'Reily went to great lengths to keep morale high. Reynolds and Snider were startled  by a string of explosions from the flight line. Their first thought was that the Germans had  sent a flight of bombers against them, only to find O'Reily staring up at glittering starbursts  in the sky. 
``I thought you guys would show up,'' he said. 
The area was lit by another sparkling flash. 
``We're celebrating my birthday,'' O'Reily shouted. 
``Where'd you get the fireworks,'' Snider yelled over the din. 
``Rockets,'' O'Reily said loudly. ``Latest thing against zeppelins. Six to a plane. You  fire `em, they whiz off and bag, no zep!'' 
Another series of blasts ripped through the air accompanied by a chorus of 'ohs' and 
'ahs'. 
``I got the sergeant to rig up a way to shoot them from the ground,'' O'Reily said with  a grin. 
``Isn't this a bit of a waste?'' Snider asked. 
``Well, yes and no,'' O'Reily said. ``They sent five truck loads, more than we could fire  in a year. I tried to send them back, but they wouldn't hear of it.'' 

O'Reily excused himself to pursue Jenny, ``Would you like some good cold American  beer?'' 
``I'll give it a try,'' she said flattered by his attention. ``Isn't your birthday the twenty­  second of October, not September?'' 
``So it is,'' O'Reily grinned. ``We'll just have to have another party next month.'' 
By the end of September, the Germans were being pushed back. . . .Montdidier, Lys, 
Amiens, Saint­Mihiel, Mezieres, Peronne, Lens, Vauquois, and Montfaucon the names were  written on the primitive markers over German graves. The American First Army was batter­  ing its way slowly through the Argonne Forest forcing the Germans back onto the Hindenburg  line, last line of defense, before penetrating Germany itself. 
At Elmsdorf, one could feel the panic in the air. If there wasn't an armistice soon,  the streets would be filled with tommys, poulions and yanks doing all sorts of unimaginable  things. For they truly were unimaginable. There was the general feeling that they would  suffer under some monstrous foreign horde, but no one could actually voice what they imag­  ined. In reality, they would suffer as had Belgian or French towns the Germans had occupied. 
There had been no raping barbarians, no bayoneted babies, none of the horrors dreamed of  by over zealous propagandists. Fighting caused most of the problems. If the towns were not  shelled, or forced to be a battleground, life went on pretty much as it always had. There  were just new rules and rulers to follow. Debts were made and paid. Babies were conceived  and born. Young people fell in love and old people argued. 
At the airbase Buch waited --- and waited. 
As summer drifted into fall, there had been more fog and more rain at Falstaff. Even 
O'Reily's fertile mind couldn't think of things to keep his men busy. Jenny kept herself  occupied by spending an inordinate amount of time avoiding O'Reily's advances and trying  to get Reynolds to notice her. 
``You know, you've got to give those Germans credit,'' O'Reily was talking. ``They've  got guts.'' 
``How so?'' Reynolds asked. 
``To fly one of those floating bombs across the ocean takes guts,'' O'Reily answered. 
``I was talking to some limey pilots who say just before a zeppelin explodes the whole thing  glows like a Japanese lantern. They always say that, like a Japanese lantern. Then it turns  into a big cloud of fire.'' He stared out the window. ``I'd kinda like to see that.'' 
The telephone rang sharply, startling the group. O'Reily rose from his chair believing  it to be another in a long line of false alarms. Reynolds answered the phone and spoke in  clipped quick sentences. 
``Gentlemen,'' he announced, ``We head for London tonight.'' 
Then he turned to Snider. ``They have a copy of Buch's plan.'' 
Boyer handed out a copy of a document to each of those present. It was a translation  of the film procured by Gari. 

Boyer spoke first. ``Gentlemen, I think after you read the document you will see how  wrong we were.'' 
He summarized thus: 
Buch had studied Civil War tactics and was convinced the policy of taking the war  to civilians was a major factor in winning. In the beginning only the military fought wars. 
For instance, at Gettysburg, where some 50,000 soldiers died, only one civilian was shot and  that by accident. Sherman's march to the sea changed all that. 
Buch wanted to take the war to the major Allied cities, and proposed an operation  based on terror. The Germans would drop large quantities of a flammable liquid into the  heart of major cities and then ignite them with incendiary devices. Resultant fires would  cause extensive loss of life and damage, destroying morale, disrupting communications and  weakening the enemy's will to fight. His method required little of the accuracy needed for  military targets and was well suited to the airship. When he first unveiled his plan in 1914  there was no method of retaliation. German cities were safe. 
``We know today's Operation Volant is a modified form of this plan,'' Boyer said. 
``The large fuel tank in the center of the aircraft is not there to power it, but to feed  urban fires. The front bay is to house incendiary bombs. Most importantly, we no longer  believe the United States to be the target.'' 
``Why not? O'Reily asked. ''Fire bombing Washington would make quite an impres­  sion.'' 
``It's mostly a question of weather,'' Boyer answered. ``October is stormy over the 
Atlantic. We now believe the targets to be London and Paris. The British and French are  planning their defense accordingly.'' 
``Gentlemen,'' General Shapp said, ``I wanted you here to review the facts and to make  any recommendations. Do you have anything to add? Any opinions?'' 
Snider looked at Reynolds who just shook his head. ``Given this, I agree with Mr. 
Boyer's assessment.'' 
``Where do we go from here?'' 
``It's up to Pershing to decide what to do next,'' Shapp replied. ``It will be decided at  the next staff meeting. My guess is your operation at Falstaff will be canceled.'' 
``What should we do in the mean time?'' 
``This is the army,'' the General said with a shrug. ``Carry on in your present capacity  until you hear from Pershing. But I feel the French and British will take over from here on.'' 
``That's about it then,'' said Snider. 

Leave 
The Germans were putting out peace feelers. On October 6, as the front lines began to  crumble, the new German chancellor, Prince Max of Baden, sent a message to President 
Wilson, requesting an armistice on the basis of his 14­point proposal. 
Otto Buch's back was aching. Sweat poured from his forehead. He was picking apples,  twisting and dropping them into a wicker basket. Whenever he took a bite out of one of the  ripe crop he not only relished the taste, but the satisfaction he had helped grow it. 
He had decided on a few days' leave, as the order he felt was forthcoming, hadn't come  at all. He went home, removed his uniform and began to help Kohler bring in the fruit. 
After supper as he sat on the porch, smoking his pipe and sipping a cup of precious  coffee made with beans smuggled from the base, the door opened and Sherry walked into  the moonlight. 
``God,'' he anguished, ``she looks so like her mother.'' For a few seconds he let pain  and loneliness sweep over him. 
She sat down next to him on the swing. They had not been close since Eric Dantzler  betrayed them. Sherry leaned up against him and he put his arm around her protectively  as he had when she was little. They shared their love silently for a while. 
``Why did he do it, Papa?'' she asked quietly. ``I thought he loved me.'' 
A few moments went by before he answered. ``I think he did love you.'' 
``Then why?'' 
He felt a warm­cool tear kiss his arm. 
``Duty,'' he said, simply. 
He knew she wasn't satisfied with the answer. 
``Men are often called on to do cold and heartless things. There are things we want  and things we need, and there is duty. It is duty that keeps a man and woman together  when times are bad. Duty that drives parents to work hard to raise their children. Duty  that makes a child care for their parents when they are old.'' 
``But isn't that love, Papa?'' 
`` In battle sometimes, men sacrifice their lives to save others they don't even know.'' 
He continued, ``No, child, love is what you feel. Duty is what you must do. Duty is stronger  than love and more resilient. It is the marriage of mankind to some higher purpose. A  responsibility to others. Without a sense of duty man is an empty shell. A ship without  a rudder, drifting aimlessly. A country without duty is doomed. It is the price we pay for  being men,'' he kissed her on the top of her head, ``and women.'' 

``Father?'' She said quietly. 
``Yes,'' he said holding her tighter. 
``Never mind,'' she said, not wanting to ruin the moment. 
Their monthly run to Holland was nearly over. The Darhowers had wanted to go  earlier, but would have looked suspicious. The increased activity at the base had depleted  their supply of pigeons and they were very close to running out. They had requested a radio,  and planned to mount it in the truck so it would be mobile and less likely to be caught in a  triangulation. It was promised next month. 
The trip had been exhausting. They were all looking forward to bed and did not see  the man in the shadows watching them return, or the one who observed the unloading of the  truck through a window, using a cardboard periscope. He counted the cages of birds being  carried upstairs. Evidence against the Darhowers was mounting. 
Hands in pockets, O'Reily stood watching the SPADs take off into the cloudy October  sky. They flew low over the field wagging their wings at their commander before turning  east and disappearing out over the Channel. They were not signaling `so­long,' but `good­  bye.' His squadron was reassigned to a unit mauled badly during the Saint­Mihiel Offensive. 
O'Reily was to join Colonel Billy Mitchell's staff. As it was, the ground crews would board  trucks this afternoon with their equipment and be across the Channel by morning. Tomorrow  he would be left with only ten men for a final cleanup. When he flew out at week's end,  weather permitting, it would be as if they had never been here. 
O'Reily was gloomy. He didn't particularly want to end his wartime career flying a  desk, but orders were orders. ``Besides,'' he reasoned, ``there's only one reason Mitch would  want me. Cause, damn, I'm good.'' 
General Shapp was correct. Two weeks after his meeting with Snider, Reynolds and 
O'Reily they received orders reassigning the aircraft and personnel. The Falstaff operation  was to be shut down. 
Although Snider and Reynolds could have folded up and moved to London anytime  since the meeting, they decided to stay until O'Reily and his men had cleared the base,  supposedly to assist him if any matters came up which required a colonel's touch. In reality,  neither man was eager to get back to the boring life in the offce. If they could enjoy the  atmosphere and hospitality of the seaside town of Falstaff for a few days more, why not? 
That evening Reynolds, Snider, O'Reily and Jenny Smith met in a restaurant in the  town of Falstaff to enjoy the seafood it served. They had just finished their meal when Jenny  announced she was going to take a walk on the beach. 
``Ah, now you know a woman shouldn't be doing that by herself,'' O'Reily said. ``What  would people think?'' 
``You're absolutely right,'' Jenny said. ``Colonel Reynolds, will you join me?'' 
He was taken by surprise and not sure what to say. 
``Do I have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming?'' 

``No, ma'am,'' he replied, as he got to his feet. When they had gone, Snider glanced  at O'Reily's stunned expression and broke into gales of laughter. 
``Waiter,'' the flier shouted, ``bring us a bottle of your finest Irish whiskey.'' 
``We will drink to the day, Jonathan T. O'Reily was shot down in flames.'' 
The bright, almost full, moon was playing peek­a­boo with large clumps of dark cloud  that seemed in a hurry to go somewhere. The damp sand radiated a slight warmth as the  surf attacked and retreated, singing the same hissing chant it had since the dawn of time. 
There was a cool breeze, heavily laced with a sea salt smell, blowing briskly ashore. The  same breeze caused the smell of Jenny Smith to assault Reynolds's nostrils. It was a good  smell. He glanced at her now and again. Her hair would dance playfully in the breeze and  occasionally she would flip her head to reposition it. Until now, he had never really noticed  how pretty she was. 
``Well now, Colonel Lawrence Reynolds, who was she?'' Jenny blurted out. 
``Who?'' Reynolds answered quickly, even though he knew the answer. He was grateful  for the dark, thinking she wouldn't notice his discomfort. 
``Any man as gloomy as you has either lost a lover, or a mother,'' she said. ``So which  is it?'' 
He hadn't really told anyone about Sherry. ``There was this girl,'' he began, and then,  even though much of it was classified, he told her everything. 
``What do you plan to do about it?'' She asked after he had finished. 
``I don't know,'' he said. ``Maybe after the war. . . ,'' he began, then he thought about  it a little. ``Maybe not.'' 
They walked for a bit along the beach. Jenny's hand sought his. He did not reject it. 
Almost unseen, the fog rolled in enveloping them in a cloudy world of their own. Then they  found themselves standing in front of the cottage where Jenny was staying. 
``Thank you for the pleasant walk, Colonel Lawrence Reynolds,'' she said holding her  hand out to him. 
``You're very welcome, Jennifer Smith,'' Lance replied in mock­seriousness as he kissed  her hand. 
``Wait,'' she said as she withdrew a small card from her purse. ``Here's my address in 
London. Knock me up anytime.'' 
His mouth dropped open. 
``Oh, goodness, '' she laughed, ``that means something very different in American,  doesn't it?'' 
``I mean you can call on me.'' 
She's stepped inside but looked back invitingly, then motioned with her head. He  hesitated, then took her in his arms and gently closed the door behind them. 

It Begins 
The offcial package was addressed to Buch and stamped `For your eyes only'. ``I also have  a package for a Colonel Ziegler,'' the dispatch rider said, ``if he could be summoned, or if I  could be directed to him. . . ?'' 
``I'll take it,'' Buch said, ``and make sure he gets it.'' 
It was technically illegal, but the man had ridden all night since leaving Berlin and  then was forced to wait two hours until the offcer showed up. He was cold, hungry and  tired. Besides, this fellow was a Captain. He should be able to play messenger, if he wants. 
He handed over Ziegler's package and Buch signed for both. 
Buch slowly turned his packet over and over in his hands. 
A few hours ago he had been working in the pear orchard, when Sherry came out of  the house calling for him. He knew when he lifted the phone it would be Shultz telling him  a messenger had arrived. Buch had been prepared for this and in a few minutes, he had  cleaned up and changed to his uniform. Sherry and Hanna came to see him off; he was going  to give each a peck on the cheek, but probably because the past week had been so wonderful,  he warmly embraced them both, as if he were going on a long journey. 
He broke the seal, opened the envelope and read the words that would determine the  future. As he read, it seemed as a great burden was lifted from him. 
He slowly folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. He rose and placed the  document --- and the one addressed to Ziegler in the safe and locked it. Only then did he  call for Shultz. ``Inform Ziegler, Gerber, their first offcers and Ricman to meet in my offce  immediately,'' he ordered. ``Have Goldberg come with a couple of guards, and tell him we  are at Security One.'' 
Shultz saluted knowing something was up. ``Oh, yes,'' Buch added, ``have Coffman  standing by with the latest weather.'' 
It was an hour before everyone was assembled. Buch had the guards posted at the  door. When the others were seated, Buch looked at the expectant faces. ``Gentlemen,'' he  announced. ``Volant is on. We launch tomorrow, sixteen hundred hours, October 22, 1918.'' 
A small cheer went up from the men, except for Ziegler, who looked stunned. This was  not as he planned things. 
``I want all your crews assembled and rested,'' Buch began. ``I want everything ready  to go by fifteen hundred hours. 
``May I see the orders?'' Ziegler asked. 

Buch stopped talking and stared at Ziegler with hate in his eyes. ``The effrontery of  the man,'' he thought. 
``Commander Gerber,'' he said coldly, ``are your men prepared to replace Colonel 
Ziegler's crew?'' 
``Yes, sir,'' came the reply. 
Ziegler was confused. What was happening? 
``I meant no disrespect, Commander,'' he stammered, ``as second in command. . . '' 
``Your job is to obey orders,'' Buch shouted. ``I have had enough of your impertinence  and insubordination.'' No one had ever seen Buch as furious, ``If you can't do your duty, you  will be replaced with someone who can. If that is not satisfactory, then I will have Major 
Goldberg place you under arrest, clear?'' 
Ziegler stood ramrod straight. As a full colonel, it had been a long time since he had  been dressed down like a raw recruit. ``Yes, sir,'' he said, his face quivered with controlled  fury. ``You can be sure my men and I will do our duty, and more.'' 
``I will count on it,'' Buch said with an edge to his voice. 
``Could someone let Coffman in?'' 
Ensign Coffman was used to giving weather briefings to the crews in the ready room  just prior to flight, and had never been in the Commander's offce. He looked around like a  little boy searching for a bathroom. ``Where can I put my maps, sir?'' 
After the emotional scene that preceded his arrival, his actions generated a considerable  amount of mirth in his audience. 
Even so, his report would have grounded a normal mission. A low­pressure area covered  the continent, Europe solidly overcast from the Baltic Ocean to the south of France. The  most dangerous aspect of the weather pattern was a line of violent storms moving in an  easterly direction. If the winds shifted more to the northeast, the storms could finish up  over the targets. 
``I don't think this will happen,'' Coffman said with a weak smile. 
The young man was flustered and managed to drop his maps on the way out. 
``The weather couldn't be better,'' Buch announced. 
Buch again summoned for Shultz, who entered with a cart, wineglasses and a bottle  of champagne in an ice bucket. He popped the cork with all the flair of a headwaiter, which  he had been in civilian life, and began to fill the glasses. Buch told him to fill a glass for  himself. When everyone had a glass, Buch proposed a toast: ``To Volant,'' he said. 
``To Volant,'' they repeated, then emptied their glasses. 
Ziegler rushed to his offce, picked up the phone and dialed the operator. 
``I need to be connected to General Heiseman in Berlin,'' he told the operator. 
``I'm sorry, sir,'' came the reply, ``but all outgoing calls have been temporarily sus­  pended.'' 

``By whose orders?'' Ziegler asked gruffy. 
``Major Goldberg's, sir,'' the voice said. 
``Then connect me to him.'' 
There were a number of clicks before another voice spoke: ``Security, Goldberg speak­  ing.'' 
Ziegler put on his most authoritarian voice, ``Major, I need to contact Berlin.'' 
``Sorry, sir, the base is sealed,'' Goldberg said, ignoring the tone. 
``Major, I order you. . . '' 
``Sorry, sir. I am following the direct orders of Captain Buch,'' Goldberg said. ``If you  like, I'll forward your call to his offce.'' 
``No, that will not be necessary, major,'' Ziegler said controlling his anger. 
`Click' went the phone and Goldberg was listening to dead air. ``Up yours, too,'' he  said softly as he placed the receiver back on its hook. 
Ziegler sat fuming in his offce. All he had worked for was over. There was nothing  left to do but fly the Goddamn mission, and succeed at all costs. 
Buch went back to his quarters carrying the last of the still­chilled champagne. He  knew the carefully choreographed scenario they had written, rewritten and rehearsed was  starting to play itself out. Throughout the night, maintenance crews would be crawling  through each of the three zeppelins, and testing everything. The gas bags would be filled  and checked. Ballast tanks would be topped­up and fuel cells filled. At nine in the morning, 
LZ 99 and LZ 101 would be walked out of the hangers, if there was nothing to warrant their  replacement by the third zeppelin. They would be moored and at ten o'clock the large belly  tanks would be filled, he wanted to be there for that. At noon, he would brief the flight  crews. Two hours later, the crew would board, stow gear and begin preflight checks. Finally,  at four o'clock, he would give the order `up ship' and they would fulfill their destiny. 
He finished the champagne, enjoying its coolness. He turned off the light and let sleep  overtake him, unaware that in the enlisted men's barracks a mutiny was brewing. 
``Look, I'm as loyal a German as any man here,'' Seamen Apprentice Flinchbaugh said, 
``but I'll be damned if I'm going to die for nothing.'' 
``He's right,'' Petty Offcer Yarlett added. ``Why should we die cause some damn offcer  wants to make a name for himself?'' 
SCPO Becker sat in his little room listening to their complaining. 
``You're talking mutiny!'' 
``So what?'' 
``They shoot you for mutiny, you bunghole!'' 
``They can't shoot all of us, if we stick together!'' 
``I tell you, I won't go!'' 
``Me neither. I'll go to jail first.'' 

``The war will be over in a few months anyway.'' 
``Then there won't be any damn offcers!'' 
Becker knew it was his duty to stop such talk. Wearing only his gray underpants, he  rose from his chair. The men stopped talking, expecting a torrential outpour of curses and  chastisement, as the chief walked in and stood silently. 
``I'm sorry, chief,'' Flinchbaugh said after gathering his courage. ``Many of us feel that  way.'' 
``I know,'' he said softly. ``I'll talk to the Captain in the morning.'' 

Opening Moves 
At 7 a.m. Reinhold Darhower climbed into the loft to feed and water the two­dozen birds  cooing softly in their cages. After this was done, he removed one of the birds and attached  the small capsule to its leg. The message merely said: ``Nothing new to report.'' Holding  the bird gently, he climbed into the bell tower for a few breaths of the cool morning air. It  was so foggy it was impossible to see the sunrise, and the town had a fairyland look. He  cradled the warm body in his hands, then gently tossed it into the air. Darhower yawned  and stretched, then glanced in the direction of the base. Mist shrouded it so that not even  the huge zeppelin sheds could be seen, only the dim lights from the windows. 
``That's odd,'' thought Darhower, ``usually the base is still dark at this time of the  day.'' 
Reynolds half woke. He felt the warm smoothness of naked flesh touching him and  the perfume of woman. He rolled over and put his arm around her, cradling a breast in his  hand, pressing himself against her back with his face in her hair. ``Sherry,'' he murmured  softly, then fell back asleep. 
If Jenny heard him, she made no notice. She pressed herself against him until she  could feel his arousal. She reached between her legs and helped him into her. As the fog  swirled around the cottage, they made slow, gentle, love in the morning. 
Otto von Buch left his quarters at 8 o'clock for the walk to the offcers' mess. He felt  hungry and hoped the cook was well supplied. The mist was starting to thin out, but it was  still thick enough to leave the world wrapped in a soft haze, both menacing and comforting. 
Buch had known the mist to hide the presence of danger and yet conceal him from danger. 
He remembered cursing it when it obscured the way home, or concealed a target. But just  as many times he had blessed it when it sheltered him from the enemy's eye. 
He could see the glow far ahead as the huge shed doors opened and heard the muffed  sound of the ground crews as they prepared to walk the massive ships onto the field. He  would be glad when this day was over. 
Darhower was back in the tower, his telescope pointed at the base. As he watched,  the big clamshell doors on two of the sheds were rolled back and the black leviathans were  slowly extracted from their cocoons and pulled into the mist. It was still too hazy to see the  numbers on the front of the ships. Darhower felt something important was happening. It  was early for them to be fooling around and they never had two zeppelins out of the sheds  at once. He started to compile a message. 
Reynolds chauffeured Jenny to breakfast. Thinking about her --- and Sherry. Should he  feel guilty? Jenny rode resting her head on his shoulder, and he smiled at her affectionately. 

He didn't love her, or at least he didn't think he did, but he felt a good deal of fondness for  her. Sherry's image blurred in his mind. Is this how love ends, like a slowly forgotten dream  in the light of day? Even if he loved others, Sherry would always be there to haunt him. 
Entering the restaurant they quickly spotted Snider and O'Reily and joined them. 
``Morning,'' O'Reily said with a mischievous smile. ``Did you sleep well?'' This was  directed at Jenny. 
``Yes,'' Jenny said, in her sultriest voice, ``very, very, well.'' 
It was O'Reily's turn to be embarrassed. 
``Well, good, '' he announced, ``let's eat.'' 
As he entered his offce, Buch was surprised to see Chief Becker waiting for him. 
``May I have a minute of your time, sir?'' 
The man was uncharacteristically upset. This man had faced death many times and  yet today his hands shook. 
``Of course, chief,'' Buch replied, ``I always have a minute for you.'' 
``Have a seat,'' he said. 
``I'd rather stand, sir,'' 
``All right, what is it, chief?'' 
``Well, sir, some of the men --- well --- are questioning whether they want to go on this  mission,'' the chief stammered, ``I mean with the end of the war so near and all.'' 
``What?'' Buch said sharply. 
``Some say they won't go.'' 
``You mean they're talking mutiny,'' Buch let the anger seep into his voice.'' 
``Well, not exactly,'' the chief squirmed. 
Fury welled in Buch. Mutiny went against every principle of military discipline he  believed in. 
``How do you, feel chief?'' 
He saw the hesitation. ``You may speak freely,'' Buch told him, ``you have my word.'' 
Becker looked at the floor before he spoke. 
``Captain,'' he began, ``you know me. I have served the fatherland well, but --- well ---  we have lost this war and that is that. I don't want to die for nothing, for some meaningless  gesture. I will risk my life, yes, but it must make a difference.'' 
He hung his head. ``That's all any of the men want, sir. They want to know this will  make a difference.'' 
Buch's fury was quenched like a fire doused with water. The men simply wanted the  same as he. 
Darhower was perturbed to see a customer show up at the blacksmith's shop with a  horse that needed shoeing. Louis had driven to the base to work and for some reason Olaf 
hadn't shown up. The farmer was one of those gregarious individuals who liked to talk just  to hear the words flow from his mouth. As it was obvious he didn't really have much to do, it  would have seemed suspicious not to continue the conversation. He was saved by the arrival  of Louis, who told them the base was locked up tight and they were allowing no one to enter. 
Reinhold managed to signal Louis that he needed to see what was going on. He maneuvered  the farmer toward the outside, so Reinhold could climb once more into the tower. He was  careful not to stand where he could be seen, but instead he stood on the ladder to the cupola  where he aimed his telescope through the gap left by a missing board. 
The two zeppelins were moored at least a quarter­of­a­mile from each other, surrounded  by large tanker trucks, six of the trucks parked adjacent to each zeppelin. Men from the  trucks were coupling hoses to the large cylindrical tanks. The workers were dressed in suits  resembling those a deep­sea diver would wear. 
Darhower tried to focus the telescope on one of the trucks, struggling to read markings,  which he couldn't quite make out. Then suddenly the markings came into focus. He wiped  some sweat from his brow and descended the ladder. Just as his brother was coming up the  stairs. 
``Louis,'' Reinhold said, ``we must send a message, now!'' 
At Falstaff the conversation was just chitchat. ``What are you guys doing today?'' 
O'Reily asked.'' 
``Probably pretty much what we did yesterday,'' Snider answered, ``nothing.'' 
``Well, I'm going to help Maravich get that SPAD running better, ''O'Reily said. ``The  damn thing's a beast to start.'' 
``I just might come over and help,'' Reynolds said. ``I know my way around an engine.'' 
``You really don't like that plane, do you?'' Jenny asked. 
``Well you know how your friend brags about his Bearcat?'' O'Reily remarked. After  flying a SPAD XIII, this one is like this Model T compared to the Bearcat. Reliable, but  boring.'' 
Buch nervously watched the rubber­suited men on the tank trucks as he made his way  to the ready room. Each zeppelin was anchored as securely as it could be. But a breeze  could spell disaster. They were now passed the point of no return, they must launch today. 
But first, he must quell a mutiny. 
A voice yelled ``Attention,'' and everyone got to their feet, some in military fashion,  others casually sullen. Buch walked to the small stage at the front. There were sixty­nine  men in the room, 23 from each crew. They were either expectant, nervous, ashamed of  themselves, or openly defiant. 
``Gentlemen,'' he began, ``I know some of you doubt if anything we do here can change  the outcome of the war. I assure you it can.'' 
He looked over the audience. ``Although it is strictly against orders, I will tell you what  we are to do, then you can decide for yourselves if you want to go. If we do not get suffcient 
volunteers, I will personally call Berlin and cancel the mission. If you do not volunteer there  will be no repercussions. You have my word.'' 
``Ha,'' yelled a voice, ``the word of an offcer.'' 
Controlling his anger, Buch said, ``The word of Otto von Buch.'' 
``The word of a god damn aristo. . . '' the voice began. 
But other voices drowned it out. 
``Shut up.'' 
``Let the man speak.'' 
``The captain never lied to us.'' 
The room was silent. 
Buch looked at the faces, old, young, some he had known for years, and began to  outline the plan of Operation Volant. It took fifteen minutes. 
When he had finished, the room was funeral quiet. Goldberg was as shocked as the  others, this was the first time he had been privy to Volant's true nature. 
``Would those who are volunteering to go, please move to my right. If you who wish  to stay, move left,'' Buch announced. 
Becker was the first up. He looked around at the others, then at the captain and,  walking proud, went to the right. Some rose almost as quickly and dashed to the left. Soon  only a few were left seated. One, a veteran the Captain known for years, rose sadly, tears  streaming down his face. He looked at Buch and shook his head slowly. ``I am sorry, sir,''  he sobbed, ``but I cannot, with a clear conscience. . . .'' 
When it was over, fifty­one men stood on the right side, five more than needed. 

Ambush 
Reinhold wished they had that radio. He glanced at the clock and knew he was racing against  time. A bird could fly between twenty­five and thirty miles an hour, and Margate was about  two hundred miles away, seven or eight hours' flying time. It was now almost noon. The  birds wouldn't fly at night and they could get lost over the Channel as the light faded. Louis  helped him code the message. Reinhold had no doubt it was the most important message he  would ever send. He went into the loft and searched the cages for a suitable bird. He chose  a young female, Number 74, and attached the capsule 
Above him in the belfry, a young, wild, male pigeon had just completed preening itself. 
He stretched his wings and decided to go in search of food. He launched himself into the air  and started to fly towards the west. Suddenly there was a loud blast and his belly was torn  asunder by small flying pellets. Dying, he plunged toward the ground. 
``What the hell was that?'' 
``Police! Police!'' Louis was yelling as he dashed up the stairs. Another voice bellowed, 
``Stop, put up your hands.'' 
Whether by accident or design, Louis was blocking the stairwell. Seizing the moment, 
Reinhold quickly shoved the bird in her cage and started to unlatch and empty the others,  tossing the birds in the air and then shooing them with his hands. He could hear commotion  and shouting from downstairs, but he kept at it. When all the birds were out of their cages,  he began ringing the bell to frighten the wild pigeons in the belfry. There was more gunfire  from outside. 
``Put up your hands,'' a gruff voice said behind him. 
He turned to face a large uniformed man with a revolver. 
Darhower did as he was told. As he threw his hands over his head, he released the  carrier pigeon that, frightened and confused, flew up the tower out the belfry and headed  for England. 
The air was filled with birds, noise, and shotgun pellets. The air smelled of gunpowder. 
A small wild pigeon flew close to Number 74 and then exploded into a cloud of blood, feathers  and gore. Number 74 flew in a panic. A small pellet smashed into her right leg and buried  itself into her breast. Some instinct told her to dive for the ground, which she did. Flying  low she was a harder target to hit. She didn't know that, but it was what allowed her to  survive. She turned her attention to the woods in the west and flew as hard as she could in  that direction, sensing safety. 
Goldberg was pleased with the operation. He had enlisted the aid of a number of local  hunters, in addition to the police. The opening shot was fired by an impulsive young man 

AMBUSH 245  who should have waited for the order to fire. The ground around the blacksmith's shop was  littered with dead and dying birds that the hunters were busy picking up. ``We'll have pigeon  pot pie tonight,'' one of them chortled. 
Goldberg watched as the Darhower brothers, silent and in handcuffs, were marched at  gunpoint to the jail. Curious townsfolk gathered to witness the downfall of these prominent  citizens. Grabenski walked over with his report. ``We killed about twenty­two birds,'' he  said. ``I estimate maybe a half­dozen got away.'' 
Looking through his binoculars Goldberg could see the small animals winging their  way west. ``Inform our friends in the woods we will need their services after all,'' he said. 
Grabenski pointed a Verey pistol skyward and fired off a red flare. 
Number 74's keen eyes saw three of her kind flying in front and above her. They were  as frightened and panicked as she was and made no attempt to form a flock. Suddenly, a  dark object fell from the sky striking the bird just before her. The dark object sprouted  wings and with a few powerful thrusts had snatched the now falling pigeon out of the sky  and was carrying it away. A similar fate befell the bird just to her right. Number 74 could  not, of course, identify the falcon. She had never encountered a predator, but buried in her  instinct was the image of the killer. 
The sun was blotted out by a sudden darkness. She folded her wings, tilted her tail  and tore into a sharp right turn. The diving falcon was surprised by this sudden movement  and missed --- almost. One of its razor sharp trailing talons ripped across the breast and  belly of the turning bird, causing a shallow, but painful gash. The falcon, like a fighter who  threw a punch that missed, had to try to regain its balance and initiative. Its powerful wings  brought it into a climbing turn in an attempt to get into position for another attack. 
The smaller bird dived and was flying a few feet from the ground, weaving herself  between tree branches. The falcon couldn't get a clear path of attack, but its keen eyes  spotted another target, one flying high and in the clear. With a cry of triumph, it broke off  the fruitless chase and turned its deadly attention to the new victim. 
A few minutes later, it responded to a man whirling a bunch of feathers on a string. 
Carrying its bloody victim in one talon it spread its wings and alighted on the leather­  covered, outstretched arm of its master. The man took the pigeon, dropped it in a bag  then gave the falcon a piece of meat that it greedily gulped down. He deftly slipped a  leather hood over the bird's head and slowly stroked its belly, grinning at the other men who  carried Peregrine falcons on their gauntlets. The falconers had accounted for seven more  birds. Goldberg wanted to catch the Darhowers red­handed with a message, either written,  or already attached to the bird. This he had failed to do. He could only assume they hadn't  prepared a message and felt it was too late in the day to send a bird. He assured Buch all  the birds had been killed, so there was no way message could reach England. 

Up Ship 
It started to rain gently at Falstaff late in the morning. Reynolds and Snider were amusing  themselves with a game of darts. They bought the game the last time they were in London  and had enlivened the board by tacking a magazine photo of a zeppelin to it. O'Reily was  in the hangar fussing with his plane, and hoping the weather would clear as he wanted to  spend the day in London before having to fly to France. 
The door opened and in stepped a very wet and muddy Andy Chitwood. Andy was a  fifteen­year­old, freckled­faced, kid who acted as a messenger boy for the base. Lieutenant 
Swaybeck hired Andy and his bicycle based more on the boy's enthusiasm, than need. Little 
Andy's greatest fear was that the war would be over before he was old enough to join the 
Army and become a hero. 
``Sir,'' he announced with a salute: ``A message from Margate.'' 
Snider returned the salute and read it quickly. It was the message sent early that day  by Darhower that said: ``Nothing new to report.'' 
Reynolds read it, balled it up and tossed it into a trashcan. ``Someone should tell these  guys not to send any more of this stuff.'' 
``Maybe we should contact them?'' Reynolds said as he lofted a dart toward the board. 
``Tomorrow,'' Snider said suppressing a yawn. 
``Becker,'' Ricman called, ``get those trucks unloaded and that gear stowed.'' 
``Parachutes?'' one of the men said as he began unloading the cloth packets. ``We've  never worn parachutes!'' 
Becker was just as surprised as the rest of the men. Only the topside gunners wore 
'chutes and that was by choice. The popular reason the men didn't wear parachutes was they  weighed too much, which was a lie. It was more of a superstition. To wear them challenged  fate. ``Don't ask me,'' Becker said, ``if the captain says load parachutes, we load.'' 
Buch was solemn as Goldberg and Gerber came into his offce. ``I want to give you  your final orders. What you do is vital to our success.'' 
He walked to the door and called for Shultz, ``Chief Petty Offcer Shultz, will you act  as witness?'' 
The commander addressing him by the wrong rank confused Shultz. 
Buch handed him some papers. ``I think you should expedite these. It's your promo­  tion.'' 
Buch handed a white envelope to Gerber: ``This contains the code to send to the High 

UP SHIP 247 
Command to inform them we have launched Volant,'' he said. ``Send this at exactly 1900  hours.'' 
Buch withdrew a large yellow manila envelope from his desk drawer. ``The safe will  contain this envelope. I have drawn up a document ordering you to open the safe, read the  contents of this envelope and act according. This will be done at exactly 2000 hrs. I want  both of you to be present.'' 
``Are there any questions?'' 
Both men shook their heads. 
``Please sign here,'' Buch said. Another paper said they understood their orders, and  the Captain took it and the yellow envelope, put them in the safe, and spun the lock. He  stood and emitted a soft whistle. 
``I'm glad that is over with.'' His whole manner changed. ``Would you join me in a  quick drink? '' He smiled, ``Coffee for me, of course, I'm flying.'' 
At 1530 hours. The flight crews of both zeppelins stood in formation between the two  ships awaiting their commander. 
``Attention.'' 
Bodies straightened like the snap a flag makes when it finds the wind. 
``At ease.'' If they thought they were to get a long patriotic speech, they were mistaken. 
``You are the best Germany has to offer. Let's get the job done,'' Buch proclaimed. 
He hesitated for a moment looking into the faces of the men who would risk their lives  for him. ``Zeppelin men!'' Becker shouted. 
Discipline broke as a cry went up from the men. ``Zeppelin men,'' they shouted over  and over. It was filled with pride and brotherhood knowing they did what no other men  in the world could do. It was picked up by the ground crews and soon hundreds of voices  chorused the same phrase. ``Zeppelin men, zeppelin men,'' over and over. 
Buch held both his hands up signaling quiet. ``To your ships.'' 
Buch grasped Ziegler's hand, any animosity between them gone for now. Only the  mission mattered. ``Good luck,'' he said, sincerely. 
``We will do you proud, Captain Buch,'' Ziegler replied. They patted each other on  the back then turned and walked toward their ships. Buch shook other hands, Goldberg's, 
Gerber's, Mohne's, offcers and enlisted men who would stay behind, until finally he climbed  the ladder into the control car of his ship. 
He became all business, he looked at his watch, exactly 1600 hours. 
``The ship is ready, Captain,'' Ricman said. 
``Very good, Number One,'' Buch said with a nod. He inhaled deeply, savoring the  moment. He leaned part way out an open window and shouted, ``UP SHIP.'' 
LZ 99 and LZ 101 rose as one, slowly and quietly. The engines coughed into life. 
``Your heading is one eight zero degrees, come to an altitude of 500 meters.'' 

UP SHIP 248 
The black airships turned south climbing slowly into the cloud cover, and faded into  the mist above. Only the dwindling sound of their engines indicated they existed, and soon,  it too, was gone. 

Charlie Bowman 
The airships flew a parallel course with about a kilometer separating them. They had  climbed to about 3000 meters, or about 9000 feet. Both flew due south, although Buch's  ship would soon turn and head west, skirting around Holland. The air was clear and the  oxygen equipment was not needed. For the first fifty kilometers the fighters of Jasta 27 had  escorted them, before they turned back with a waggle of wings. 
They had been flying over an hour before Ricman reported a problem. About a hundred  kilometers ahead the flat cloud plain rose up to become a range of dark mountains stretching  along the horizon. The line of storms Ensign Coffman predicted would stay far to the South  was moving north. The storm clouds rose to an altitude well over 7000 meters. ``I don't  envy Ziegler his journey,'' Ricman said. 
``Ours could get just as bad.'' 
Still fifty kilometers from the storm front, Buch gave orders and LZ 99 slowly turned  west. 
``Message, Sir,'' Ziegler's first offcer sang out. Radios on both zeppelins had been  removed to save weight and the two ships talked to each other with signal lamps. ``Am  turning west. Proceed at your own discretion. Good luck.'' The first offcer read. 
``Tell them,'' Ziegler said, ``farewell, we will share a drink back at base.'' 
``Discretion, indeed,'' thought Ziegler, staring at the dark gray wall ahead. ``I'll fly  through the fires of hell before I turn back.'' 
Ziegler turned to watch the other ship head west, but found his view blocked by a  hanging parachute. Another one of Buch's ideas. He reached forward and unhooked the  parachute. ``Number One,'' he cried out holding it as if it was a sack of manure, ``Get these  things off my ship.'' 
O'Reily showed up at the headquarters just as Jenny, Snider and Reynolds were prepar­  ing to head back to town. 
``You riding in with us?'' Lance asked. 
``Naw,'' he answered, ``I'm gonna sleep in the hanger. Take off first thing in the  morning, if the weather's good.'' 
``Oh, but I had planned a birthday party,'' Jenny said. 
O'Reily was flattered. ``I didn't think anyone remembered.'' 
``Well at least you get your birthday kiss,'' she said as she leaned forward and pecked  him on the cheek. 

CHARLIE BOWMAN 250 
O'Reily actually flushed. He smiled at Jenny, ``Want me to bring anything back from 
London?'' 
``No, thank you,'' she said. 
``You can come along if you want,'' he said. ``Have to sit on Maravich's lap. Unless  you'd rather sit on mine.'' 
``Now, what fun would that be?'' 
O'Reily rolled his eyes and toyed with the end of his mustache. ``I'd like it,'' he said. 
``We'll see you, what? Thursday?'' Snider said. 
``Yep,'' O'Reily answered, ``see you Thursday.'' 
They all waved as the car pulled out. 
The bird smelled the land before actually seeing it. As if her wounds and exhaustion  weren't enough, she now had to press forward through a cold drizzle. Her navigation system  had performed flawlessly, she was over the land and only a few miles from her home nest. 
Flying over Margate, she headed for a red brick building west of town. She saw the shelf that  protruded from the second story of the building and spreading her wings, painfully fluttered  to a landing. A small bell signaled her arrival. 
As he had been ordered, Gerber dispatched a signal to Berlin at exactly 7 o'clock. It  read: ``The lion roars.'' 
LZ 99 cruised westward, keeping the line of storms to its left. Buch prayed they would  stay south of London. 
There were prayers being recited in LZ 101 also. They were within seconds of plunging  into an angry black wall of cloud. 
Charlie Bowman saw the light blink over the loft door. His grandson had rigged that  up because Charlie couldn't hear the bell as well as he used to. All this modern science still  amazed Charlie. He had been born in 1837, but at eighty­one, even though he wasn't as  spry as he used to be, he managed quite well. He carefully opened the loft door and entered  the musty area where the birds where kept. He was known as the `Birdman of Margate'  and probably knew more about raising carrier pigeons than any man in England. His family  had been breeding pigeons for almost three hundred years. Charlie's father's contract with  the Reuters News agency made the family financially well off, Margate Station being a vital  link connecting the British isles with the rest of the continent. Although the telephone and  telegraph had replaced much of the news carrier pigeon networks, government contracts and  hobbyists gave the surviving Bowmans a steady income. 
Charlie opened a door that led to the landing area. He could tell right away that the  bird was not healthy, she hopped on one foot and held her left wing away from her body. He  grabbed her and held her gently while making cooing sounds. He could tell by the color of the  leg band this was a military bird, so he pressed a small button on the wall. He didn't trust  the device and only stopped pushing the button when his grandson actually materialized. 
William Bowman entered the room. ``For Christ's sake,'' he said rather loudly, ``stop  ringing the bell.'' Bill Bowman was middle aged and wore the uniform of the Royal Signal 

CHARLIE BOWMAN 251 
Corps. When they contracted the Bowmans to operate the carrier pigeon station for the 
Ministry of Defense, William was given the rank of lieutenant. The government built a  communication shack next door to house the telephone, telegraph equipment and the code  work. 
The old man removed the little capsule and handed it to William. ``Look,'' the old man  said pointing to small holes in the bird's chest, ``birdshot.'' The bird squirmed as Charlie  carefully probed the holes with long, sharp, tweezers, removing four of the little lead balls. 
He handed the bird to William. ``What do you think caused that gash?'' he asked. 
William looked at the animal. ``I don't know,'' he said, ``a hawk or eagle?'' 
``Close,'' Charlie said rubbing his chin, ``falcon. I've seen wounds like that when some­  one wanted to intercept a message back in the old days.'' 
Charlie just shook his head. ``That little girl has been through hell,'' he said. ``You  might want to mention that to someone.'' 
It was quite obvious to both experienced bird handlers that the falcon's talon had  nicked a vital tendon in the bird's wing. She would never fly great distances again. 
``Should I put her out of her misery?'' William asked sadly, carefully grasping the  bird's head so he could wring its neck. 
The old man thought for a minute, hating to do what so often had to be done. ``No,''  he said finally, ``let me doctor her a bit. Maybe we can get a few chicks with her kind of  guts.'' 

Treason 
In the little communications shack at Falstaff, Private Juan Mendez sat with his feet propped  up on the desk reading 'Moby Dick', when the telegraph key started to clatter its signal  alerting him to an incoming message. Mendez put down the book and sent back the message  he was ready to receive. A veteran of Pershing's excursion into Mexico the year before, 
Mendez easily translated the Morse code to the collection of jumbled letters that was the  encrypted message. He had them repeat it make sure he was correct, and signed off. With  his codebook from a desk drawer, he decoded the message, read and reread it then wondered  what to do with it. It was a rare evening when they received anything after seven, so it might  be important. Mendez did what any good soldier would do in such a situation, using his  own initiative, he passed the buck to someone else, in this case, Corporal Emett Sloane, who  didn't know what to do either. ``Hell,'' he said aloud, ``Reynolds and Snider are downtown  by now.'' 
``Hey, I'll take it downtown,'' Mendez volunteered. 
``Yeah,'' Sloane said sarcastically, ``I'll bet you would.'' 
Then the thought struck him. ``Hey, see if that kid's gone home yet.'' 
Andy was just getting ready to leave when Mendez summoned him. 
``Do you think you could get this to Colonel Reynolds?'' Sloane asked him. 
``Yes, sir,'' the boy snapped back. 
``Don't call me, sir,'' Sloane said, ``my parents were married.'' 
The boy left with the message, Sloane went back to working the Times crossword  puzzle, and Mendez went back to chasing the great white whale. 
In Berlin, a shiny black Mercedes pulled up in front of the La Baroness. The driver  quickly got out and opened the door for the single passenger, an immaculately dressed and  polished captain, carrying a thin leather pouch under his arm. Inside the building the girls  eyed him with lust, while the enlisted men eyed him with contempt. He was a messenger, but  no muddy roads, or smelly motorcycle for him. He was messenger to the high and mighty. 
He walked straight to the elevator and rode to the fifth floor. As he approached room 5­5  the guards came to attention and did not challenge him as he opened the door. General 
Heiseman frowned as he walked in. 
``Urgent message,'' the captain said, clicking his heels with a loud snap. 
``Urgent message,'' the general grumbled, ``they're all urgent. Can't even get one day  to relax.'' 

TREASON 253 
The High Command had even changed its usual card night because of a scheduled  meeting with the Kaiser. 
Allowing his irritation to show, the general opened the pouch, removed the envelope,  and broke the seal. His bluster and bravado disappeared as he read. His face became pale  and his hands shook. ``Has this been confirmed?'' 
``Yes, sir.'' 
The general turned to the other men at the table. His voice quivered as he told them, 
``Gentlemen, Buch has launched Operation Volant.'' 
Ziegler's airship was like a worm borrowing into the earth. Since plunging into the  storm front the zeppelin was buffeted by nasty headwinds and was barely making 40 kilometer  an hour over the ground. The rain soaked its skin adding tons to its overall weight and  making it sluggish. The lightening was the most disturbing; hearing a crack like an artillery  piece firing by your ear and seeing the clouds glow incandescent tested the nerves of even the  toughest man. Visibility changed from gray fog to vistas of clouds. Once they floated into a  giant cloud cavern whose walls glowed a fiery red while flashes of lightening danced within,  as ominous as it was beautiful. ``It looks like the bowels of hell,'' his first offcer remarked. 
Still it was preferable to what they had now. The clouds ahead were almost black. 
They were blinded by rain that had become a torrent and the winds tossed them about like  a ship in high seas. 
By rights, Ziegler should turn back now, but there was no way of telling how wide the  storm belt was. It might stretch all across France, or end abruptly. 
The image of Buch in Ziegler's mind was all he needed to determine his course. 
If Ziegler could have monitored Buch's progress, he would really have been furious. LZ 
99 was flying across the storm front, staying about 30 kilometers north of it. Ricman noticed  the front slipping further and further south. The mountainous clouds curved away until they  were over the horizon. Where they were, the winds became gentle and there was no rain. 
Ahead of them the sun began to set over the cloud­mist plain below, causing rainbows to  dance in the clouds. 
``Couldn't ask for better,'' Buch almost sang. 
Gerber and Goldberg, with Shultz there as witness, prepared to follow the last of Buch's  orders. Gerber fiddled with the combination to the safe but had to try three times before  the lock clicked opened. Gerber withdrew the packet and placed it on the desk. ``God,'' he  said cheerfully, ``I hate this cloak and dagger game.'' 
He pulled out the first envelope, the one addressed to Buch, opened it, withdrew the  letter and read it. 
Goldberg had never seen such a transformation in a man. Gerber became pale, his  knees buckling. He dropped into Buch's chair, covered his face with his hands. The letter  fluttered to the desk. Goldberg reached out. 
To: Otto von Buch, Commanding 

TREASON 254 
From: General Heiseman, Chairman, German Joint Staff 
Operation Volant has been reviewed by this staff and His Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm  the Second. We have determined that this operation is not in the best interest  of His Majesty, or the German nation. Effective immediately, all efforts in this  direction will be halted. The airships LZ 99, LZ 100, and LZ 101 and crews are  to be transferred to the Baltic base at Seddin. 
Captain Buch is to assume command of the Naval Airship Division's Training 
Command. 
The base at Elmsdorf will be transferred back to the Army under the command  of Colonel Ziegler. Orders have been dispatched to this effect. 
We would like to extend our heartfelt appreciation for your efforts on this project. 
You and your men are to be commended. 
General Heiseman 
``My God,'' Goldberg blurted out, ``the mission is unauthorized.'' 
``You know what this means?'' Gerber said. 
``Yes,'' Goldberg said hanging his head, ``When Captain Buch returns, I must arrest  him for high treason.'' 
Reynolds, Snider and Jenny were just finishing their meal and sipping coffee when  little Andy Chitwood showed up. The boy was soaked. ``You go home and get into some  dry things before you catch your death,'' Jenny admonished. 
``Yes ma'am,'' he said, handing Snider the note. Admiring the boy's persistence, 
Reynolds gave him a shilling. 
Reynolds looked at Snider's wrinkled brow and knew something was amiss. 
``What do you make of this?'' 
Reynolds looked at the message. Water had blurred the ink slightly, but it could still  be discerned. 
``LZ 99 and LZ 101 removed from sheds at 0900 hours. Prelaunch activities. Center  tanks filled with gas. Suspect launch before nightfall.'' 
``Another shakedown cruise?'' Snider asked. 
``In this weather?'' Reynolds answered. ``More than likely, another red herring.'' 
``We've never had two zeps out at once, or filling the center tanks with gasoline,'' Snider  said. 
``But he'd need better visibility and a dry period for a successful incendiary attack. I  don't think we have anything to worry about.'' 
The two men glanced at Jenny who now held the note in trembling hands. 
``Was the writer of this note British or American?'' She asked with a quiver. 
``British,'' Snider answered. ``Why?'' 

TREASON 255 
She looked at them on the verge of tears. ``An Englishman would have said petrol,''  she said. ``Center tanks filled with petrol.'' 
Her point struck home like a vibrating arrow. If an Englishman wrote gas, he meant  gas. 
``Great Jesus Christ,'' Reynolds exploded, ``Buch intends to drop ten tons of poison  gas on London. 
Reynolds wished he had his Bearcat, as the damn Model T couldn't get up to twenty  m.p.h. in the mud and rain. The dim headlights barely showed the road as potholes shook  the passengers. As they drove, they talked and as they talked, more pieces of the puzzle  came together. 
``What about the weather?'' Jenny asked. 
``Perfect for gas,'' Reynolds answered, ``cold, damp, with a bit of breeze. It should  spread the gas without allowing it to get too high in the air.'' 
``But he won't be able to see,'' Snider remarked, `` the clouds are too damn thick.'' 
``He's got a Sky Car,'' Reynolds snapped back, ``I saw one a few months ago. Little  bomb­shaped thing, with a cockpit for a man, hanging from a winch, you lower through the  clouds, the passenger below the clouds can talk to the zeppelin above the clouds.'' 
``The forward bomb bay,'' Snider nodded, snapping another pieces in place. 
``And this weather will keep our fighters grounded,'' Reynolds said. ``Buch couldn't  ask for better.'' 
The door to the little headquarters was illuminated by the same naked light bulb 
Reynolds had seen his first night. It sizzled and steamed when a raindrop hit it. Reynolds  stopped outside the door. ``I'm going to see O'Reily,'' he shouted. 
On impulse Jenny ran back, threw her arms around Reynolds and kissed him. ``You  be careful,'' she said, crying. 
Captain O'Reily and the Sergeant having done everything they could to the plane, had  decided to sleep in the hanger. They had pulled out a couple of filthy mattresses used by the  mechanics to put things on they didn't want touching the ground, and covered them with  tarpaulins with another tarp for a blanket. It had been a long day and they wanted a good  night's sleep. They had just settled down when they heard the sound of the Model T. The  side door opened and in rushed an excited Reynolds. 
``Now what's going on?'' O'Reily said with a yawn. 
``Gotta get in the air,'' Reynolds said breathlessly, ``Right now!'' 
``Sergeant,'' O'Reily said, ``form a search party. The colonel has lost his mind.'' 
``I'm serious,'' Reynolds said. He then explained the new intelligence they had received. 
``It's dark, it's raining, and the ceiling is about 500 feet,'' O'Reily shook his head. ``I  might get this beast up in the air, but I don't know how I'd ever get it down again.'' 
``I could order you,'' Reynolds said. 

TREASON 256 
``You could,'' O'Reily said back, making clear he wouldn't do it anyway. 
He couldn't order a man to risk his life. Reynolds knew he would have to persuade  him. ``Do you have any idea what ten or fifteen tons of gas dropped in the center of London  will do?'' 
O'Reily had an idea, he lowered his eyes. 
``Snider estimates it could cover an area of ten square miles,'' Reynolds pressed, ``maybe  more, depending on the type of gas.'' 
O'Reily was looking ashamed: ``Snider estimates anywhere from three­hundred­  thousand to a million casualties,'' Reynolds continued the attack, ``Men, women and ---  children.'' 
``If it's something like chlorine, they will all die gasping like fish out of water, and if  it's mustard. . . '' Reynolds let the sentence hang. The image of children blinded, with their  skin burned off by the caustic gas was horrible. 
O'Reily crumbled. ``You are a purebred son of a bitch, Reynolds.'' 
``Maravich, how soon can we fix the SPAD to carry rockets?'' 
``The eleven, sir?'' The idea of the two­seater being used for combat shocked him. 
``It's all we have,'' was O'Reily's response. 
``I guess we could jury rig something in about an hour,'' the sergeant shrugged. ``I'll  get the boys.'' 
When he left the hangar, O'Reily turned to face Reynolds. ``I'll need someone to ride  the back seat,'' he said. ``I won't take Maravich. He has five kids.'' 
``I'll do it,'' Reynolds volunteered. He couldn't ask someone to do what he wouldn't. 
Good,`` O'Reily said. ''I was going to suggest that.'' 

The Storm 
Fear filled the interior of Ziegler's airship. Although the wiper blades worked feverishly,  water flowed down the sides of the craft and poured off the nose in torrents. The clouds  had become black, occasionally turning dirty gray when a flash of lighting tore though the  air close by. Winds not only pushed the zeppelin from the sides, but updrafts tossed the  nose and tail at will, like a ship in high seas, bow rushing up then plunging down. For a  few agonizing moments, the zeppelin was rocked back at an angle of forty­five degrees. Each  time the dirigible bucked, its structure would scream like some prehistoric monster, each  such groan meaning the ship was just a little bit weaker. 
The first offcer was shouting: ``She won't take much more of this. We must turn  back!'' 
``No,'' Ziegler yelled, ``we are almost through this. I know.'' 
The terror of the storm triggered strong emotions. As it worsened, the crew hated  every atom of Ziegler's existence. The first offcer seriously contemplated mutiny, not sure  if the others would back him. Murder was in the minds of some. 
``Keep her at one eight zero,'' the captain shouted over the noise. 
``Aye, aye, Captain,'' the helmsman said, rolling his eyes. The ship bucked and swayed  so much the compass spun wildly, making it impossible to steer in a true direction. He did  the best he could. The elevator man had a worse time trying to keep the ship on an even  keel. The bubble level, which was his main instrument, had whipped up into a froth and he  was now using his own sense of balance for guidance. 
There was a tremendous flash, followed by a booming roar that shook the ship. All  the men held their breath, waiting for some sign that lightning had struck. 
The nose of the airship pitched up, ten, fifteen, twenty degrees it rose. Men grabbed  onto anything to steady themselves. Then, just as suddenly, the nose started to drop, slowly  at first, then picking up speed. It went past twenty degrees, forty, fifty! Crewmen were  desperately trying to avoid sliding forward. Ziegler had locked an arm around the handrail,  the first offcer hugged the ladder, the navigator grasped the leg of his table. The ship was  now almost perpendicular. It groaned as it was violently twisted by the wind. 
The navigator lost his grip. Arms flailing, he fell towards the front of the ship, hitting  the helmsman a glancing blow and crashing headfirst into the window, braking the glass and  plunging into the night. He hadn't even had time to scream. 
Ziegler held on, eyes tightly shut. Fear gripped him as hard as he gripped the ship. 
He had done all he could. And his men had performed above the call of duty. 

The updraft had carried the ship to an altitude of 4000 meters before it let loose. 
Slowly the tail came down until they were level again. The first offcer ran to the speaking  tubes for a status report. The helmsman asked to be relieved as the falling navigator had  dislocated his shoulder. 
``Captain,'' the first offcer reported, ``we have two dead and four incapacitating injuries. 
Number four engine cannot be restarted and bag 7 has ruptured severely.'' 
Ziegler nodded. ``Helmsman,'' he said calmly, ``bring her to a heading of zero, zero,  zero.'' 
``Aye, aye, sir,'' the helmsman said smiling, swinging the wheel 180 degrees and pointing  it north, toward home. 
At Falstaff, Snider tried to contact Pershing's headquarters but lines were down. He  got through to the RAF colonel in charge of London defenses. Snider explained what he  knew but could visualize the man at the other end of the phone yawning in boredom. ``So,  you think this chap is going to launch a gas attack on London?'' the voice said. ``I doubt  even the Germans would sink that low. Still I'll pass the word for our chaps to be on the  alert.'' 
``You'll have to get every plane you can in the air.'' 
``I'm afraid that is impossible,'' the voice came back. ``Have you seen the weather? 
Flying would be suicide. Besides, it's against regulations to fly in such weather.'' 
Snider pleaded to no avail. 
``We'll have the searchlights and guns standing by,'' the colonel said calmly. ``If anyone  spots this sky car thing, we can handle it.'' 
Snider hung up in frustration. It was obvious the man thought he was bonkers. Then 
Jenny told him they had connected with Paris. The Frenchman reacted as had the English­  man, with the bonus of being rude to boot. 
``Look,'' the Frenchman said, ``it would be impossible. It is pouring here. I can't even  see the lights of the Eiffel Tower. There will be no attack here.'' 
Had he bothered to look he would have seen the rain had stopped and the sky was  clearing. 
LZ 101 began the return journey north. The crew were relieved now they were heading  home to safety. What they didn't know, and couldn't know, was that if they had continued  south for only five more minutes, they would have been in calm air, and flown out of the  storm front just two hundred kilometers from Paris. 
Like a wounded, confused animal, pursued by a pack of dog, Ziegler had turned away  from safety and headed back into the teeth of the storm. 

Contact! 
Maravich took more than an hour to mount the rockets. They were little more than fireworks,  long cardboard tubes filled with gunpowder with a cone at the front and a long stick attached  to stabilize its flight. These rockets also had two small wheels attached to the sides that  fit into a C shaped channel attached to the airplane. The channels were clamped to the  struts that supported the upper and lower wings of the plane and mounted higher at the  front than at the back. What kept them in place was a combination of gravity and wind. 
Instead of the match lit fuse used in pyrotechnics, a small high resistance wire similar to an  electric light bulb filament was inserted into the back of each rocket, allowing them to be  fired electrically. Wires were routed to the cockpit and attached to a bank of toggle switches  on a metal panel. A battery behind the pilot's seat supplied the power. 
``All I want to know is, will it work?'' O'Reily asked. 
``Damned if I know,'' came the reply. ``Everything checked out. It should work.'' 
``We couldn't find any incendiary bullets for the guns,'' the sergeant continued. ``They  went with the squadron too. But they're loaded and ready to go with plain old bullets.'' 
He wiped his hands on an oily rag. ``I'd test them as soon as I could though,'' he said. 
``They ain't been fired in about three months. 
Reynolds shook his head. ``This is not filling me with confidence,'' he said. 
``I'm doing the best I can.'' 
``Can't ask for more, sarge,'' O'Reily told him. 
O'Reily took Reynolds to a small room to suit up. They donned thick pants, warm  leather jackets, woolen scarves, and fur­lined boots and helmet. Lastly O'Reily handed 
Reynolds a hunting knife, with a six­inch blade, in a scabbard, and a pair of thick knitted  gloves. 
``Strap the knife to your ankle,'' O'Reily explained. ``If we crash, you can cut a hole in  the fuselage and crawl out.'' 
``OK, sir,'' Maravich announced, ``She's all gassed up and raring to go.'' 
``Good work, sarge,'' O'Reily said. ``Now listen up. I want you to get the men to  place as many smudge pots as they can around the field. I want you to take that fireworks  launcher we concocted out to the middle of the field and fire a rocket every five minutes. 
Got that?'' 
The sergeant nodded. O'Reily looked at Reynolds. ``Let's mount up then,'' he said. 
They walked over to the left side of the fuselage. O'Reily put his hand on the rim of  the rear cockpit, stopped and bowed his head. Reynolds could hear him praying, then he 
made the sign of the cross. ``You might want to make peace with the Lord now,'' he said  turning to face Reynolds, ``there won't be time later.'' 
He stepped onto the wing, climbed into the front cockpit, strapped himself in, set  his goggles in place and wrapped the scarf tightly around his face. Butterflies danced in 
Reynolds' stomach as he did the same. 
``Good luck,'' Maravich yelled. O'Reily gave him a thumbs up and, pulling the scarf  away from his face, yelled, ``Contact!'' 
When the engine roared into life the sound was usually loud in the hangar. Crewmen  rushed forward to hold the plane back. Then O'Reily gave the signal and the chocks were  pulled from the wheels. The crew let go and the plane began to roll out of the hangar, and  soon rose into the darkness. 
Now that the wind was astern, pushing them north, Ziegler's crew hoped for an easier  passage. Although the ship was still rocked by the wind, pelted by rain and threatened by  lightning, the men were beginning to feel they would soon be out of the storm. 
A mass of warm damp air had been thrown forward with such force as to cause a  large bubble of relatively cool, dry air to be tossed high in the atmosphere where it became  even cooler. By all laws of nature the cooler air was supposed to be at the bottom of the  atmosphere, not at the top. Nature corrected this oversight by allowing the cooler air to  sink through a hole in the lower atmosphere. The air could swirl, like water being drained  from a tub, or crash like a waterfall, or even a combination of both. To further add to the  atmospheric melee, as the cool air dropped, warm air rushed up to take its place. 
As the zeppelin entered the downdraft the nose was shoved down hard, but the majority  of the length of the huge vessel was still in relatively calm air and resisted the upward  movement. It was like trying to break a stick over your knee. The zeppelin, like the stick,  began to bend in the middle. 
The first indication that something was amiss came when control car crew heard a  loud `twang,' like a guitar string breaking, as one of the quarter­inch thick steel cables which  relieved stress on the gondola snapped from the zeppelin envelope. It streamed backward,  tangling in the propeller, which ground to a halt. At the same time, an ear­piercing shriek  could be heard coming from the zeppelin. 
When Ziegler looked forward, he could see the centerline of the gondola was no longer  aligned with the center of the ship. They were falling at an incredible rate. If something  wasn't done soon, they would hit the ground. 
``Drop the bomb,'' Ziegler ordered. Losing the weight would help. 
``Speaking tubes are dead, sir,'' the first offcer yelled back. 
``We have lost the helm, sir,'' the helmsman shouted. 
``And elevator control.'' 
Ziegler looked around. The control car was even more out of plumb and coming loose. 
``Abandon the car,'' Ziegler yelled. The zeppelin could be steered from auxiliary controls in  the aft engine pod. 

The elevator man, a young crewman called Kline was the first on the ladder, followed  closely by Beyer, the helmsman. Kline was almost to the envelope when there was a screech­  ing, ripping, sound. He looked down in time to see the control car lurch sideways and 
Ziegler's anguished face staring up. Beyer was screaming. One of the cables still attached to  the zeppelin and the control car had looped itself around his body. There was a crack, and  the gondola broke away from the zeppelin. The cable snapped taut before it broke, slicing 
Beyer in half. Kline watched in horror as the two pieces of Beyer, rushed away. 
With the control car gone, LZ 101 plunged out of the downdraft and into the nearby  updraft. Kline scampered up the ladder on to the catwalk. He ran aft, past the cloud sky  car, still in its cradle, and in front of the bomb. There was a momentary quiet and then from  behind him, a deafening crack. He looked back to see the front of the ship was rotating and  twisting. He fell on his face, hugging the catwalk as it snapped inches from his face. With  a horrible roar the front third of the ship broke free. He watched the still buoyant forward  section move away, like a locomotive uncoupling its load. There was a ball of fire and it was  gone. The aft section with its lifting bags still intact and free of the weight of the forward  section was rushing upwards again at an extraordinary speed. 
Kline held onto the catwalk and screamed, until there was no more air to scream with. 
Like a balloon carelessly released by a child, the mortally wounded airship drifted away,  going higher and higher. 

The Hunt 
If they could have talked over the roar of the engine, Reynolds and O'Reily probably wouldn't  have anyway. The flight had been cold, bumpy and fruitless. They had climbed through the  rain clouds and Reynolds had cringed as icy rain soaked his face and clothes, creeping into  every crevice and freezing. Not until they reached an altitude of about 5000 feet, did the  plane tear through the overcast into clear air. The moon was silver in the night sky and a  layer of wispy clouds above them still hindered visibility. They could see about ten miles  in any direction, but not well. The black zeppelin, as large as it was, could be only a few  miles distant and still remain invisible. Since it was assumed the zeppelin would fly north of 
Falstaff to head for London, O'Reily headed that way. After about forty minutes of straight  flying, he began to circle. As they flew back, they could see a glow in the clouds ahead. 
Maravich was firing the rockets. He eyeballed the area where the next one went off and  began spiraling down through the clouds. As the dark grayness enveloped them, Reynolds  started to think of what was below: The field, hopefully; the large hangars; trees, RADIO 
TOWERS! 
The tower array loomed large ahead as O'Reily threw the plane on its side and pulled  back hard on the stick. Reynolds could hear the wooden frame creak from the force. A tower  flashed by only feet away the turn costing them altitude they could not afford. Reynolds  looked out and could see the smudge pots only thirty or so feet below. 
O'Reily gained control and lined himself up for a landing. Even with the circle of lights  around the field, setting a plane from a black sky on the black ground was disorienting and  unnerving. The wheels slammed down and they bounced back into the air. O'Reily blipped  the engine, turning it off and on again to lose power, until finally the craft was safely down. 
Maravich and the truck pulled up alongside them. ``Roll her into the hangar,'' O'Reily  yelled, ``and put her to bed.'' 
``We have to go up again,'' Reynolds said softly. 
``What!?'' 
``He's up there,'' Reynolds declared. ``He's up there. I can feel it.'' 
O'Reily just stared, as if watching a madman with a hand grenade. 
``Oh, my God,'' he muttered, ``you are crazy.'' 
``Captain, we should be over the coast of England,'' Ricman announced. 
``Lower the skycar,'' Buch ordered. ``Let's see if we can find out where we are.'' 
A young seaman named Brubaker climbed into the cockpit of the little skycar, donned  the special helmet that contained headphones and signaled to lower away. The skycar was 
dropped by gravity, but hand cranked back aboard. The steel cable threaded its way through  a system of pulleys and an odd rectangular mechanism that resembled a small guillotine. This  was the cable cutter. If the skycar became entangled far below, it could tether the zeppelin. 
A blow with a hammer would sever the cable and drop the car --- and its passenger. Two  burly crewmen stood by, one operated the brake mechanism so the reel didn't drop the car  too fast, and the other held a small sledgehammer to cut the cable if he had to. 
Chief Petty Offcer Vogelsong was in charge of operating the radio. Buch decreased  altitude until LZ 99 was skimming the clouds. Brubaker was instantly surrounded by dark  cloud. It was an eerie feeling. Only the wind gave any impression of motion as even the  sound of the zeppelin vanished. Brubaker actually liked these times when it seemed he was  the only human being in the world. 
``Are you out of the clouds yet?'' Vogelsong's voice brought Brubaker back to reality. 
``No,'' he answered, ``not yet.'' 
They had already lowered 400 meters of cable and were quickly dropping more. 
``That's it,'' Brubaker radioed up, ``I'm out.'' 
Brubaker had ridden in the car many times during practice flights and he liked this mo­  ment best. The clouds tore by only a meter above his head giving the illusion of tremendous  speed. He would even duck as the skycar ripped through an outcrop of nebulous cloud. 
He only allowed himself a moment of joy before he got down to work. Using a small  telescope mounted to a compass he reported landmarks and their vectors to Vogelsong who  relayed them to the navigator. 
``There is a large group of lights at 285 degrees,'' Brubaker reported, ``and another  smaller group beyond it.'' 
``Just to the left of them is a lighthouse.'' 
The navigator made some quick calculations. 
``Captain,'' he said to Buch while pointing to his chart, ``the towns of Ipswich, Norwich  and the Cross Point light.'' 
Buch studied the charts. They were almost a hundred kilometers north of where he  wanted to be --- off course, but correctable. 
He gave the new heading to the helmsmen, and searched the horizon with his binocu­  lars. ``They left their lights on for us,'' he said, ``They don't know we're coming.'' 
Reynolds and O'Reily were in the air flying north. The anger coming from the front  cockpit was as cold as the wind. The two men almost came to blows on the ground, O'Reily  adamantly refusing to fly and Reynolds just as firmly maintaining they must. It had come  down to a direct order and any friendship between the two vanished at that instant. O'Reily  stood silent for a moment before ordering his men, ``Refuel the damn plane.'' 
Other than yelling, ``contact,'' as he started the engine, he spoke not a word to anyone. 
The second flight was pretty much the same as the first, cold, wet and boring. As  before they had flown north about fifty miles, then made a lazy circle for about ten minutes,  before starting home for base. 

``Where are you, Buch?'' Reynolds said softly. His eyes hurt from the stinging wind  and strain from trying to peer through the dark. 
Then he thought he saw something. A circle of black on a field of black gray. It was  there and then it wasn't. ``Probably my eyes playing tricks on me,'' he thought. ``Oh well,  what the hell,'' he thought, as he tapped O'Reily on the shoulder and pointed. 
``Sure boss,'' O'Reily shouted, knowing he wouldn't be heard,`` any thing you say.'' 
He steered in the direction of the mystery spot. 

The Kill 
``Sir,'' Ricman announced, ``one of the top gunners reports a strange light moving right to  left, just off the starboard bow.'' 
Taking his binoculars, Buch scanned the sky. At first he saw nothing, but then he  focused on a small, orange streak, looking like a tiny shooting star. The light was then  obscured by the curve of the envelope. Buch guessed it was an aircraft exhaust and gave an  alarm. ``Battle stations,'' he shouted, ``prepare for attack.'' 
Gunners checked their weapons and tensed up. ``Tell the gunner,'' Buch told Ricman. 
``that he has damn good eyes.'' 
Tension mounted as the orange light swung nearer. 
``Brubaker reports he can see the lights of London on the horizon,'' the navigator said. 
As the black zone blotted out the glow of the stars behind it, O'Reily realized it was no  natural phenomenon and he owed Reynolds an apology. He cleared his guns, remembering  his aircraft was not loaded with tracers. His heart raced as he was filled with an adrenaline  rush. 
Reynolds could not remember being more frightened than he was now. Although he  had been around zeppelins for years, seeing one in flight still filed him with awe. 
``Man the rear gun,'' O'Reily shouted back at him. ``I'm going to try to take out the  machine guns on top.'' 
The silhouette of the massive craft was now distinct and growing larger. Although he  had talked to other pilots, the incredible size of the zeppelin was overwhelming. O'Reily  attacked from directly ahead and slightly above, the foes closing at two hundred miles an  hour. O'Reily could now make out the machine gun positions on the top, as they started to  sparkle. The SPAD answered with a chattering blast of its own guns, the air streaming with  the smell of cordite. Then they were roaring above the zeppelin, so close, Reynolds could  see the faces of the gunners. He saw one of the Germans fall and roll down the slope until  his safety line jerked him to a stop. 
The giant tail of the zeppelin flashed by on their left and the rear gunner fired at  them. Without thinking, Reynolds fired the Lewis gun he had been gripping tightly since  the engagement started. He heard O'Reily whooping and yelling, and thought the pilot  was wounded, but when O'Reily turned towards him with a huge grin, he could see it was  exuberance. Reynolds also saw a row of neat holes in the bottom wing of the SPAD, not a  foot from the cockpit. 
O'Reily wrestled the plane into a sharp turn, cursing that he was not in his nimble and  powerful SPAD XIII. Coming around for another pass, this time from the side he aimed the 

THE KILL 266  aircraft at the zeppelin, reaching for the board with the seven toggle switches and flipping  the first to arm the rockets. 
``Don't look at them,'' he shouted. The sky lit up with a flash followed by a roaring  hiss. 
Reynolds was temporarily blinded and never saw the missile streak forward, fizzle out  and fall harmlessly before it reached its target. O'Reily flipped the switch to fire the second  rocket. Nothing! 
``They're wet!'' 
Quickly he flipped the third switch, this time the rocket fired cleanly. O'Reily cried  out in triumph, but the missile bounced off the giant's back and exploded on the far side,  showering flaming sparks. Only a missile penetrating the wet envelope was going to bring  down the zeppelin. As they sped above the huge craft the surviving machine gunner began  spraying bullets. Reynolds heard a ``pfftt'' sound as two small holes appeared in the rear  cockpit inches from his belly. 
The sparks from the exploding rocket cascaded past the control car. ``All ahead full,'' 
Buch ordered, ``dump ballast fore and aft, up ten degrees. Take her to thirty­five hundred  meters.'' 
The elevator man responded and the zeppelin began to climb. 
Buch wasn't sure what he had run into. If the plane was a true zeppelin hunter, it  would have incendiaries and they would be dead now and there didn't seem more than one  attacker. 
``I think we have stumbled on some kind of training flight,'' he told Ricman. 
As O'Reily swung around he saw the zeppelin rising. This time he came in from the  rear, in range of the tail guns. He fired number four rocket from the wrong position: it  streaked under the belly of the leviathan and exploded harmlessly just forward and below  the control gondola. O'Reily fired a burst at he tail gunner, carefully lined up the plane and  fired the fifth rocket that ignited but stayed stuck to their wing. 
``SHIT!'' O'Reily screamed. 
Now an easy target, the zeppelin's gunners poured bullets into it. 
``DUCK,'' O'Reily shouted as the rocket exploded into fiery sparks. 
Reynolds barely got his head down in time, and had to beat out the flaming bits of  rocket that swirled around in the cockpit. 
He looked at the wing. The strut was virtually gone and the upper wing was vibrating  wildly. Worse, flames were creeping out of the engine cowling. 
``O'Reily!' he screamed and then saw the oozing hole in the back of O'Reily's leather  helmet. Fire exploded from the engine, bathing the pilot's face in flame and forcing Reynolds  to crouch down in the cockpit where he could smell the sickening sulfur fumes of burnt hair  and flesh. The cloth sides of the cockpit burst into flames. There was a screeching sound as  the upper wing tore off. There was no time to think --- he simply reacted. Surrounded by  heat and flames, he jumped from the burning cockpit into the black sky. 

THE KILL 267 
The SPAD, now little more than a missile, barely missed the vertical stabilizer and hit  the zeppelin at a shallow angle and skipped along the top. One of the gun posts was struck  by the wreckage and torn from its mounting, the weight of the weapon and post dragging the  gunner to his death. His tumbling screams were clearly audible in the command car. The  flaming aircraft left little burning bits of itself across the airship's curved top. It came to a  stop, rested for a few seconds, and then tumbled off the side. In the command gondola, they  had felt the shudder of the impact, and seen the final plane's fiery plunge into the blackness  below. 
Every man stopped for a moment, listening for the rumbling explosion that meant  flames had reached the gas bags. Then, without being told, Ricman hurried to gather men  to head to the top. 
``All engines ahead slow.'' Buch ordered, ``level the ship. Do not vent gas.'' He wanted  the ship to be in control, but slow enough any fires would not grow. Venting hydrogen would  blow them up. 
``Number Two,'' Buch said quietly, but distinctly to the second mate, ``have all crewmen  don their parachutes and prepare to abandon ship.'' 

Target 
Reynolds became aware of three things, he was not dead, he was not falling, and his body  was sliding along a smooth surface. Unknowingly, when he jumped from the burning plane  it had just passed the tail and was flying just above, and only a bit faster, than the zeppelin. 
When he landed on the surface of the airship, the tough skin acted as a huge trampoline,  absorbing the shock of his fall, stunning him, but leaving him relatively unhurt. 
He scrambled frantically trying to find something to cling to. Like a mountaineer  sliding down an ice cliff, he slipped off the curved side and dropped on to the horizontal  tail fin. He wildly reached for, and snagged, a steel guy wire that supported the section. 
He curled his arms and legs around the life­saving quarter­inch of steel. The speed of the  zeppelin decreased, coming almost to a stop. He was stuck, with a death grip on the wire,  like a flea on an elephant's back. 
By the time Ricman reached the center of the ship, Chief Becker had already organized  as many men as he could and sent them topside. They erupted like ants, armed with fire  extinguishers, flashlights and blankets, to battle the fire and the wind­driven rain swirling  around them. Pieces of wreckage, still on fire, lay on top of the zeppelin. Although a safety  cable stretched along the full length of the zeppelin, most of the men did not wait to attach  their safety lines to it, but crawled on hands and knees, throwing flaming bits over the side. 
There was a fifty­foot gash revealing the top of gas bag six. Fire raged from a large piece of  wreckage next to it. Becker used his jacket as a potholder to push it overboard. 
There was a scream. Becker looked up to see a man slipping down the curved side, but 
Ricman grabbed him. They hung suspended, both supported by the First Offcer's safety  line, until they were rescued. Ricman ordered everyone to attach safety lines. 
Within minutes all burning pieces were thrown overboard and all fires were out. Luck­  ily the flames rose away from the zeppelin, not into it. Ricman commanded everyone to  thoroughly inspect the ship for any stray sparks, or hot spots. Becker crawled into the space  above gas bag six. Only a few millimeters of fabric separated him from the hydrogen, but  it was necessary to thoroughly inspect this area. A glowing ember here could spell disaster. 
Even with the threat of fire no longer menacing them, he knew he still had a major task  ahead. His crew would have to fix the gash, or the wind would rip it further. 
Even though the zeppelin was moving forward slowly, the wind and rain still slashed  at Reynolds, sapping strength from him. If he was to survive, he must get into the zeppelin,  but how? He remembered the knife strapped to his leg, slit the fabric at the side and crawled  in. 
The power for lighting had been turned down for combat and inside it was like an  empty cathedral. He expected to be challenged when he entered, not aware most of the crew 
was topside dealing with the flaming wreckage. He was cold almost to the point of freezing. 
None of his bones appeared broken, but he was sore, and any movement was painful. He  headed forward, not quite sure what he would do. He skirted the ladder to the aft control  gondola, and approached the bomb bay. The huge cylinder swayed slightly as it hung from  the shackles, a skull and crossbones painted on the side bore the caption `Warning, Gas.' 
His worst fears were realized. The thing seemed to radiate evil and death. 
He heard a voice and looking forward, saw a man bent over a table next to the skycar's  winch, speaking into a telephone. Reynolds knew he must do whatever he could to stop the  mission. 
He tried to remember the training in hand to hand combat he learned years ago. 
``How was that?'' he thought. ``Hold the knife firmly, blade up, thumb along the hilt.'' He  approached the man silently. He could feel his beating heart making a thumping noise in his  temples. ``Do it,'' he thought, ``just like one of those practice dummies.'' Although it was  freezing in the airship, Reynolds felt suddenly warm. ``Quickly reach around the victim's  head with your left hand,'' the words of the instructor floated in his head, ``Firmly grasp  the chin and pull up and back, thereby stretching the neck.'' The man started to struggle. 
``Then, with the right hand, cut firmly left to right, severing both the jugular vein and the  windpipe just below the larynx, thus preventing the victim from giving an alarm.'' 
He closed his eyes as a fountain of blood shot out. He wished there was a way he could  close his ears to the bubbling, gurgling, sound of the man's dying breath. Reynolds lowered  him to the catwalk, and recognized him: Vogelsong. . . the songbird would sing no more. He  went to wipe his eyes, but his hands were covered in blood. He was close to losing control. 
He did not like this business of killing. No, not at all. 
Still angry, he examined the winch and cable to the skycar. He easily deduced the  purpose of the guillotine like cable cutting mechanism and the hammer that now hung by  a cord beside it. He lifted the hammer. ``Five or six pounds,'' he muttered. He held the  hammer high. ``I shouldn't have to do this,'' he whispered. ``Nobody should have to do  this.'' He brought the hammer down hard, the cable snapped, and the skycar dropped. Just  that fast, another life was gone. 
Down below, the sudden drop surprised Brubaker. Then the cable went slack as the  nose of the car pointed toward the ground and picked up speed. He would have almost two  full minutes to pray. 
The battle to save the airship was almost won. Becker climbed out of the gash after see­  ing the danger from sparks was gone. The zeppelin had risen above the altitude where oxygen  was needed and some men were already feeling it. Ricman and his team were almost finished  their inspection. Becker signaled for his riggers to join him, beckoning to the youngest, a fel­  low named Fetrow. ``Go --- down --- and --- tell --- the --- Captain --- he --- can --- vent --- the ---  gas --- cells,' he said slowly, each word a struggle to get out in the thin atmosphere, ''and ---  bring --- back --- four --- spools --- of --- number --- ten --- cord --- and --- six --- needles.'' 
Reynolds' attention was focused back on the bomb. ``If only I can damage the fuse,''  he thought. When he examined the front of the bomb, he found the fuse was protected by a 
metal cover the size and shape of a coffee can. A nut held the cover in place, but he had no  wrench and he didn't see one. The only tool he had was the hammer. ``It will have to do,''  he muttered. 
Swinging the hammer he hit the cover at an angle trying to batter the nut to rotate. 
``It's starting to loosen,'' he grinned inwardly. 
Suddenly his head exploded in pain. Lights danced in front of his eyes. He saw the  bomb rush at his face and then blackness. 
Reynolds gradually became aware of people talking in German. 
``I came down the ladder and saw Vogelsong lying there,'' a young voice was saying. 
``Then I saw this madman beating on that thing. I hit him with the fire extinguisher.'' 
``Good job, Seaman Fetrow,'' an older voice said, ``I'll see the captain hears of this. 
Better get that cord topside, or Becker will skin you alive.'' 
As light started to seep into the grayness, Reynolds realized he was restrained and  there was someone standing in front of him. 
``Where did you stow away?'' a gruff voice asked. 
``I came out of the sky,'' Reynolds answered, not bothering to lie. 
His head reeled back as a fist crashed into his face. He spit out a broken tooth. 
``Where did you stow away?'' 
``I was on the SPAD that crashed into you,'' Reynolds managed to croak. 
The fist hit him again. 
``Don't hit me any more,'' Reynolds pleaded. ``That's the truth. Don't hit me.'' 
This time the fist buried itself deep into his stomach. He gasped for air, choking on  his own blood. 
``That will be enough of that,'' a familiar, authoritarian voice said. 
Reynolds strained, trying to concentrate on the voice. ``Captain Buch?'' 
``My, my, Eric, you are a mess,'' Buch said. Indeed he was. Ricman had ordered him  tied him to a girder. A large cut above his right eye dripped blood, as did his nose and  mouth, his eye was swollen shut, and the whole side of his face was purple. 
``And you are a tremendous pain in the ass,'' Buch added almost nonchalantly. 
He looked at the crushed cover on the bomb fuse. ``Number One,'' he ordered, ``see if  he's damaged it.'' 
Ricman withdrew a spanner from a toolbox attached to the floor, and took off the cover. 
A bit of metal with a red piece of cloth attached fell out, bounced once, and disappeared  through a gap into the night. 
``Damn,'' Ricman muttered. 
Even from where he was tied Reynolds could see the fuse looked pristine. 
``He's managed to knock out the arming pin,'' Ricman said, disgusted. ``The fool has  armed the bomb.'' 

There was concern on the faces of those who heard, but Buch quickly dispelled any  fear. 
``Don't worry men,'' he said calmly, ``It's set to go off at a thousand meters. We're way  above that. Put the nose back on.'' 
A number of men came down the ladder, first among them Chief Becker. ``We've sewn  up the gash as best we can, sir,'' he said. ``I suspect we are leaking gas out of bullet holes.'' 
He saw the body on the floor, and tears welled. He had been close friends with `Ears' 
Vogelsong for many years and the Chief had a paternal feeling for the younger man. 
Hatred hung thick in the air. 
``Only one, chief,'' Buch whispered. 
``Thank you, sir,'' he replied with clenched teeth. His right arm slashed out. The  sound of bone cracking was clearly audible as his fist smashed into Reynolds' jaw, snapping  his head back into the girder. 
No doubt Becker had broken his own hand as well, but the pain outside did much to  contain the pain inside. 
``Thank you again, sir,'' he said to Buch, who just nodded. 
``Hose him down,'' Buch told a crewman carrying a fire extinguisher. He pumped  handle a few times and squirted Reynolds in the face. When the alcohol water mixture hit 
Reynolds open wounds, he cried out in pain. 
``Leave him be,'' Buch announced to the crew. To the man with the fire extinguisher  he said, ``Guard him. If he passes out, bring him to.'' 
``You can't enjoy the pain when you're passed out.'' 
``Number one,'' Buch said loudly, ``we have a mission to complete.'' 
``Our last position confirmed by Brubaker was 50 kilometers northeast of London,'' 
Ricman said, ``but with the attack and all, I frankly don't know where we are.'' 
``Our friend has put us in quite a pickle,'' Buch said stroking his beard. ``He gouged  out our eyes when he scuttled the skycar, and we can't risk lowering ourselves below the  clouds or the damn bomb will explode at a thousand meters.'' 
Buch had brought the ship down to 2500 meters altitude and was now heading south­  west at half speed. He stood looking out the windshield pondering the question, ``How do  you find a target you can't see?'' 
Suddenly Buch's face broke into a smile. He called, ``What time is it?'' 
Reynolds became aware of. . . .Silence. One by one the engines had shut off. No one  spoke, or made a sound. He had to wonder, ``Now what the hell's going on?'' 
In the control car nobody moved. The windows and doors were thrown open. Buch  stood in the center of the floor holding his pocket watch. The zeppelin floated like a cloud  at the whim of the wind, but even as high as they were, sounds echoed up from below. 
``Shhh,'' said Buch. 

Then they heard it, faint and distant. A clock was striking the hour. . . . 
Buch pointed north­northwest in the direction of the chime. ``Big Ben! All ahead,  three­quarters. Come to a heading of three­four­five.'' 
Ricman walked over to congratulate the captain. ``Clever,'' he said, ``very clever.'' 
It was an old sailor's trick. Count the seconds from when you see a lightning flash until  you hear the thunder, and you can tell how far you are from a storm. He just matched the  time on his watch to Big Ben's chime. 
``Number One,'' Buch now raised his voice, ``prepare to drop the bomb at my com­  mand.'' 
Reynolds watched as Ricman and a crewman started to fuss around the bomb­release  wheel. To prevent the bomb from being dropped accidentally there were large pins installed  that had to be removed. Ricman stood by the speaking tube while the crewman grasped  the large wheel in both his hands. 
Ricman nodded once. The crewman pulled firmly on the wheel. The hook slid smoothly  from the shackles and the giant cylinder dropped away. 
``That was it,'' thought Reynolds. ``All the effort, all the death, the struggle, was for  this one, undramatic moment.'' 
The two men acted as if they had just dumped a load of garbage. 
Buch saw the huge bomb drop away. It seemed to accelerate at incredible speed, but  this was because the zeppelin, now free of its weight, was rising fast into the sky. 
``Level off at three thousand meters,'' Buch ordered. ``All ahead full. Come to a heading  of zero, seven, zero.'' 
He did not look back. It was now in the hands of God. 

The End 
Worse than the physical pain Reynolds was enduring, was the knowledge he had failed. 
The bomb would, by now, be spreading its lethal cloud across the city. Reynolds had lost  everything and would soon lose his life, all for nothing. Air rushed in through the now­  empty bomb bay and the temperature was below zero. He was shivering uncontrollably. 
If he didn't die from the physical beatings his body had survived, he had every chance of  freezing to death. 
Buch saw the towering bank of storms he had avoided earlier. The front had advanced  northeast relentlessly and there was no chance of avoiding it. The repair of the topside  gash could not survive. They had scored through miracles for one day. Buch made a bitter  decision, which, in a way, made things easier for him. 
Ricman patrolled the control car, glancing at the compass heading and the maps on  the navigator's table. ``Sir,'' he said softly, ``if we continue on this heading, we will be over 
Dutch airspace in a few minutes.'' 
Buch motioned him to the rear, out of earshot of the crew. ``I have decided to scuttle  the ship,'' he whispered. 
Ricman merely nodded. He was just as conscious of the impossibility of taking the  zeppelin through the storm and had waited to see what Buch would decide. 
``The men can parachute over Holland,'' the Captain explained. ``We'll lock the controls  and I'll destroy the ship over the North Sea.'' 
``Sir, if I may be allowed--. . . '' 
``No, Number One,'' Buch snapped back. ``I am the Captain. It's my job.'' 
They stood in silence for a moment. ``What of our. . . .passenger?'' Ricman asked. 
``He and I have a private matter to settle,'' Buch said finally. 
Ricman went to the speaking tubes. ``All personnel are to don their parachutes and  report to the bomb bay.'' 
Reynolds became fearful as he saw the crew begin to congregate around him. 
``What's it all about?'' a voice yelled. 
``We are going to see if the British bulldog can fly.'' 
Reynolds wanted to tell the man he was an American, but why bother. 
Reynolds saw Buch and Ricman approach. The Captain signaled for silence. ``Can  you all hear me?'' he shouted. The group quieted down. 

THE END 274 
``Men,'' Buch began, ``Germany will never forget what you have achieved this day. You  are all heroes and warriors. I have never been as proud of any men.'' His voice broke at the  words. They could tell he meant what he said. 
``We cannot make it home,'' Buch continued. ``The storms ahead will tear us apart.'' 
He looked at the men. ``We are over Holland,' he announced. ''I want all of you to  abandon the zeppelin.'' There was a smattering of protest. 
``You will be interned, but not for long, the war will be quickly over, thanks to your  efforts.'' He concluded his goodbye: ``I want to thank each of you for your loyalty and  devotion. Do this one last thing for me. Live!'' 
The men cheered until Becker's booming voice was heard, ``Every man check the man  next to you. Make sure the harness is tight. Remember, jump, count to ten, pull the ring.'' 
``OK, who's first?'' 
There was plenty of hesitation. ``Fetrow, how about you?'' 
The young seaman was still flushed at being the hero who captured the saboteur. ``OK, 
I'll go,'' he declared proudly. 
Buch shook his hand and then the boy leaped through the hole where the bomb had  hung, whooping like an Indian. Other men began to line up, Buch shook each man's hand  before he jumped. Soon, only Buch, Ricman, Becker and Reynolds were left. 
``Now you, chief,'' Buch said quietly. 
Impulsively the Chief locked Buch in a comradely embrace. Then he stepped back,  saluted, and dived into the sky. 
Buch and Ricman headed forward to the control gondola, leaving Reynolds alone. 
From the control car, two engines were brought up to full speed and the zeppelin to  a heading that would take it out to sea. Both the elevator and rudder controls were locked  in position. The helmsman and elevator man shook Buch's hand and then disappeared out  the control car hatchway. 
``Good luck, Number One,'' Buch said as he took Ricman's hand. 
``Same to you Captain. I'll see you on the ground.'' 
``Before you go,'' Buck asked, ``could you check my harness?'' 
Buch had removed his coat and was wearing his parachute. Ricman checked the latches  and clasps. 
``Ready to go, sir.'' 
``Thank you.'' One last salute. 
Ricman went to the hatchway, and leaped out. 
Buch watched Ricman fall through the air and then saw his parachute blossom. He  slowly began to undo his harness. 
Buch set the throttles of number one and two engines to all ahead full and the zeppelin  slowly began to head west. He opened a door mounted on the aft wall and removed a small 

THE END 275  wooden box the size of a cigar box. Carrying this box and the parachute he climbed the  ladder into the body of the zeppelin. 
Reynolds guessed they had turned the ship in the direction of the North Sea and locked  the controls. He didn't know whether he was the sole person aboard, or not, and he didn't  care any more. A condemned man, he had played out the moment of his death in his head  so often his fear had dulled. Then he saw Buch walking along the catwalk with a wooden  box. Straps undone, his parachute still draped over his shoulder, the German ignored him  as he removed a flare pistol. Would he fire into the zeppelin, setting it alight so there was  no chance of the ship falling into enemy hands? Reynolds was certain Buch intended to end  his own life along with the zeppelin's. The Captain going down with the ship. ``Yes,'' he  thought, ``Buch would do it that way.'' 
Silently Buch placed the shell in the gun and the gun in his pocket. He picked up the  knife with which Reynolds had killed Vogelsong and approached. 
``You mustn't,'' Reynolds said through his pain. 
Buch had hoped the man would face his end without begging. 
``You mustn't,'' Reynolds fought the agony, ``kill yourself,'' he managed to say. ``Sherry  needs you.'' 
Buch was astounded by the words. The man was not begging for his own life, but for 
Buch's. ``Why should my daughter concern you.'' 
``Because I love her,'' Reynolds sobbed. 
``Then why did you betray her!'' 
Reynolds was silent for a while. How many times did he ask himself that? There was  only one answer. 
``Duty,'' he whispered finally. 
Buch looked at the knife in his hand for a moment, then decided to use it. He cut the  cords and the American collapsed on the catwalk like a sack of flour. Buch had nothing to  fear from him --- all the fight was gone. 
There was a thud. ``Put it on,'' Buch commanded. 
Reynolds began to painfully fit his arms in the parachute harness, suddenly over­  whelmed with a new emotion, one that fought the pain and fear --- hope. 
Buch stood with his back to him, holding the flare gun in his right hand. ``If you see 
Sherry, tell her I also had to do my duty and,'' his voice cracked, ``I love her.'' 
Reynolds struggled to his feet and finished latching the harness. ``You can --- come  with me,'' he said. 
Buch paused for a second. If the mission was a failure he would be dishonored forever. 
Success meant he would live a lie. He would not allow his country to be raped. He had  sacrificed his home, family, career, dignity and honor when he decided to disobey orders and  bring victory to Germany in spite of its leaders. No, it was too late. ``Go,'' he said softly. 

THE END 276 
Buch raised the pistol and fired up the vertical tunnel. Mesmerized, Reynolds watched  the glowing flare disappear into the airship's bowels. His mind screamed, knowing what  came next. He dived out the bomb bay into the dawn. 
What the British pilots had told O'Reily was absolutely correct. The giant zeppelin  began to glow like a Japanese lantern and for a moment it looked quite beautiful. Then  angry red­black chancres erupted through the skin of the craft. With a shattering whoosh,  the skin disappeared, the zeppelin began to list, and like a floundering ship, sink by the stern  as the precious gas burned away, leaving a naked, scorched skeleton dropping from the sky. 
Spiraling through space, Reynolds shut his eyes tightly, pulled the ripcord and was  jerked upright, hit by the pain like an electric shock. It was strangely quiet at first, only  the sound of a gentle wind. Moments later the air was filled with a deafening roar as the  burning carcass of the zeppelin almost fell on him, searing his vision and scorching his flesh. 
He watched the burning wreckage twist downwards, trailing bits of flaming debris like leaves  dancing above a bonfire. 
Looking up, he saw flames consuming the silk parachute. Looking down he saw the  blackness of the North Sea rushing up at him. 
On the morning of October 24, two obsolete zeppelins landed at Elmsdorf and were  moored in sheds five and seven, next to LZ 100. Their crews were transferred to buses and  were then gone. The fighter squadron was ordered to evacuate forthwith to an airfield outside 
Munich. All Elmsdorf personnel were informed they were to be granted a week's leave and  an extra month's pay. Major Goldberg carried the news to Buch's residence to inform Sherry  and Hanna Buch that Commander Otto von Buch was missing in action, and presumed dead. 
As the women consoled each other, it occurred to Goldberg that both women acted as if they  were expecting this. Condolences were offered, as were promises of assistance. Goldberg was  granted permission to search the house for any Government documents stored there, which  was good, as he had been ordered to do so in any event. 
By the evening of the following day, all personnel at Elmsdorf, except Goldberg, Gerber, 
Grabenski, and a small security crew, had left. Acting on instructions, the two offcers and 
Sergeant Grabenski entered Shed Six. Gerber entered the control gondola of his former ship  and opened the valves to all cells. Hydrogen started to flood into the hangar. The sergeant  found a large barrel of cleaning solvent and poured it on a pile of rubbish by the entrance. 
When they were a safe distance away, Gerber removed a Verey pistol from his pocket and  fired a flare through the doorway. It took him three shots to hit the pile, but the explosion  was instantaneous. Flames spread to sheds five and seven and they too were destroyed as  the zeppelins there caught fire and exploded. Fire companies from Elmsdorf, and even from  as far away as Cologne, were turned back at the gate. 
By noon next day, the base at Elmsdorf was destroyed, only one blackened hangar  stood like a giant tombstone. 
A similar operation was being conducted in Berlin, where every scrape of paper that  had anything to do with Operation Volant was also consigned to the fire. 
One day later, Lundendorff resigned, thus allowing the peace process to begin. 

THE END 277 
By the bright sunny, Sunday, morning of October 27, all physical evidence of Operation 
Volant had vanished. All that was left was contained in the cloudy and leaky memories of  men. 

After the End 
April 13, 1921 
The people of Germany did what the people of every nation do after every war, buried  their dead, wept their tears, said their prayers and then got on with life. The winners had  dug just as many graves, cried just as many tears and muttered just as many prayers. 
A locomotive puffed into the Cologne train station discharging passengers who flowed  toward the entrance. At the edge of this steam, a thin man in a brown suit walked slowly  dependent on the cane in his right hand. . . In his left, he carried a weather­beaten carpetbag. 
The man in the brown suit put his bag in the back of a carriage and told the driver  where he wanted to go. It was close by and the fare would be small, but the passenger said, 
``I have a lot of time. Just drive around for a while.'' 
The city looked much as it had before the war, apart from the crippled veterans begging  on the street. Destination of the carriage was the garage of Herr Mueller. The man in the  brown suit paid, removed his luggage and entered, as the driver noticed the generous tip and  bowed, ``Danka.'' 
``Herr Dantzler,'' a voice shouted behind him. 
``It is good to see you again, Herr Mueller,'' Eric Dantzler said. 
``I see you have been wounded. The war?'' Mueller asked, 
``Yes, the war,'' he replied. Reynolds saw no reason to confuse the issue by telling 
Mueller he was no longer Eric Dantzler. 
``Come, come,'' Mueller said, ``see your car. It is over here.'' 
He pulled the off the cover. Reynolds gasped as he saw the Bearcat. It was immaculate. 
``My son, Gustav, adopted the car. He looked a little guilty. ''He says it is good to  drive it sometimes.'' 
Mueller called for his son and Reynolds could see his arrival had broken his heart. He  paid the boy generously for taking care of the car, and Mueller double what he owed him. He  got into the car with diffculty, gently lifting his left leg into the vehicle as Gustav reluctantly  helped him start and, with a wave, Reynolds set out on the road to Elmsdorf. 
As he drove he mentally reviewed the happenings of the last 18 months. 
He remembered looking up and seeing flames gnawing at the edge of the parachute,  then blackness. His next memory was of vague white shapes and a feeling of flying down a  white canyon. Later he guessed the shapes were doctors and nurses and the canyon was the  hospital hallway. He had erroneously thought the ceiling was the floor and he was flying. 
After that, memories drifted around like impressionist paintings. 

It was after Christmas before he started thinking coherently and began to be cognizant  of his surroundings. He realized he could not move, as he was in a body cast and his one  leg was in traction. His face was tightly wrapped, and it was with great diffculty he asked  a nurse in English, ``Where am I?'' 
The nurse called for the doctor who spoke Dutch. A doctor and a nun came to his  bedside. 
``Aha,'' the doctor said, flashing a bright light in Reynolds' eyes, ``our fallen angel is  awake.'' 
The doctor was emphatic he was not to speak. ``No, no, no. You will undo all my fine  work.'' 
``Do you understand German?'' the doctor asked. 
Reynolds nodded. 
``Good, then Sister Angelica can explain everything while I tend to really sick people. 
Listen, but do not speak, understand?'' The nun held his hand as she spoke, which he found  comforting. 
``You are called the `fallen angel','' she began, ``because the fisherman who brought you  here said the clouds turned to flame and then he saw you drop out of the sky, like a comet.'' 
Reynolds wondered what she would say when he told her it was true. 
He had hit the water with such force his left leg shattered at the knee, forcing the bone  through his leg. His doctors seriously considered amputation. They also found his right leg  was also cracked and he had broken both arms, cracked ribs and his jaw was broken in three  places. He had lost a lot of blood and suffered internal injuries. He had not been expected  to live. 
As much as he enjoyed his one way conversations they also frustrated him. The sister  had told him the war was over but not who won. It was two more weeks before the casts  were removed from his arms, and he could print his questions with a shaky hand. 
``How many dead, London and Paris,'' he wrote. 
``I don't understand,'' the nun shrugged. 
``October 22, gas attack, London and Paris????'' He wrote frantically. 
``I know of no such thing.'' 
Gradually he accepted the fact the mission of LZ 99 had been a failure, or there had  been some huge cover­up. 
The rest of his time in the hospital was torture. The pain he could bear; the boredom  drove him nearly insane. By the end of February all casts had been removed. He could now  talk with diffculty, and walk with the help of a cane. 
He told the doctor and Sister Angelica he really had fallen from the sky, but changed  the details, as he didn't know how much was classified. 

He called his superiors and found no one home. He had no passport, no money, and  no identification of any kind. He had plunged into a sea of red tape just as cold and deep as  the North Sea. 
Three more months would pass before he talked Doctor Van der Holten into lending  him a little money, most of which went to the Dutch sea captain who smuggled him ashore on  the English coast. Eventually in London he took up residence in a Salvation Army Mission,  sleeping alongside winos, derelicts and other veterans. John Snider had already left for the 
U.S. and his successor had never heard of the Buch plan. Colonel Reynolds was listed as  missing in action. As it had become a scam to claim to be a missing individual and claim  that person's benefits and back pay, the offcial at the Embassy threatened to have him  arrested. Reynolds countered: ``Good, then you will have to prove I'm not who I say I am,  which is what I want in the first place.'' 
So they took his fingerprints and sent them to Washington for verification. 
It was as he was leaving the Embassy he got his first stroke of luck. A woman's voice  from behind him called his name. 
``Jenny,'' he cried. 
``Oh, God,'' she sobbed in his arms, ``I thought you were dead.'' 
``I nearly was,'' he said, ``for a while.'' 
They made quite a couple, the well­dressed beauty and the dead­beat. 
``You'll come live with me. If you want to, of course,'' she looked at him for a sign that  it would be acceptable. She continued, ``Oh, I know people will be shocked, but this isn't  the nineteenth century.'' 
As he watched her, immersed in her deep blue eyes, he was overwhelmed with a sense  of shame and guilt. Ever since the SPAD's wheels left the ground, and all the time he lay  in the Dutch hospital, he had not thought of her, even once. 
The U.S. authorities finally confirmed he was who he said he was. British authorities  were contacted and a cursory search was made for the unexploded (and many suspected  imaginary) bomb. None was found. It was generally held, Colonel Reynolds had been  captured and tortured by the Germans and was a little, you know, funny. 
He and Jenny married in October of 1919. Love and security surrounded him for the  first time in his life. An unlucky 13 months later, Jenny complained of coughing and a sore  throat. Before the week was out, she had been buried in her family's plot outside Stoke 
Poges, the 18,867,985 victim of the Great Influenza that had swept the world after the war. 
She had been five months pregnant. 
As the yellow car approached the turn off to the Buch home, it slowed. A chill of fear  gripped him. He drove straight past telling himself: ``I'll just drop in on my way back.'' 
As he approached the airship base, he looked around for landmarks. The base was  gone; the field where the mighty zeppelins landed, now contained four distinct sprawling  entities. There was now an auto­parts plant; another manufactured rubber products; still  under construction, the third would produce chemicals and the only building he recognized, 
the old zeppelin hangar --- shed two --- had been converted into a knitting mill. The offces of 
Goldberg's security detachment still served much the same purpose as a police substation. 
Elmsdorf itself had hardly changed and Reynolds drove to the Darhowers' garage. The  new owner, a veteran with one leg, only grunted in response to questions. 
``Excuse me,'' he began. He had decided to ask a policeman, who looked hard at him. 
``Eric Dantzler, I believe.'' 
The beard was different, as was the uniform. 
``Sergeant Grabenski?'' The last time they parted company, the sergeant was trying  to kill him. 
``Yes, Herr Dantzler.'' Then he smiled and offered Reynolds a ham­like hand. ``The  war is over,'' he said,'' and good riddance. 
``Actually we do have an open warrant for you, Herr Dantzler,'' he told Reynolds as  they walked a little restaurant for lunch. Reynolds stiffened, he had murdered the policeman  during his escape. ``You left without paying your rent,'' Grabenski chuckled. ``Your ex  landlord is very angry.'' 
They sat, drank beer, ate sausage and sauerkraut and chatted like old friends. Graben­  ski filled him in on the events of the last years. 
``The Darhowers were in your profession, but we assumed you knew that. They were  both executed on November 10 --- a day before the armistice. My old boss, Major Goldberg  works for a newspaper in Leipzig, and writes children's books. Lieutenant Commander 
Ricman has a job in America at the Goodyear Company. I understand they want to build  zeppelins there. I don't know what happened to Gerber; last I heard, he was still in the Navy. 
Of course, Captain Buch and that other fellow --- I can never remember his name --- left on  that mission and never returned. Captain Buch's daughter still lives at the old place, but it  has fallen on hard times.'' 
The sergeant sat back to see how this last item was digested. Reynolds seemed to  ignore it. 
``And I stayed right here and am now assistant chief of police,'' the sergeant laughed. 
``Soon I will marry a plump German girl and raise plump German kids.'' 
Before they parted, Reynolds gave Grabenski enough money to make his ex­landlord  happy, and a little extra. 
Soon he found himself at the entrance to the Buch estate. Instead of turning in, he  tried making excuses to himself. He rubbed his face with his nervous hands, and accepted  the truth: she was the reason he was here. 
The property looked shabbier than he remembered. The buildings needed paint. Out  in the fields, he saw men working at the plow and, next to the barn, a young one­armed man  was splitting logs with a maul. He glared at Reynolds as he approached the house, but did  not challenge him. 
Herr Kohler was sitting on the front porch, he had aged dramatically. 

``Herr Kohler?'' Reynolds ventured, then repeated himself. 
``He can't understand you,'' said a woman's voice from behind him. 
He looked around quickly and was momentarily swept with a feeling of shock. The  right half of her face was horribly scarred causing her lip to curl hideously and her eyelid  drooped. 
``It's all right,'' she said, ``I know I'm not as pretty as I was.'' 
She moved around Reynolds and adjusted the shawl on Kohler's lap. ``Poor dear,'' she  said, ``he hasn't been the same since his wife died.'' 
Then she looked at Reynolds, ``You don't recognize me, do you?'' 
Although there was something familiar, Reynolds had to shake his head. 
``Mariah,'' she said, ``Mariah Periot.'' 
``Yes,'' he said bowing courteously, ``I remember you well.'' His shock must have  showed. 
``I was,'' she hesitated, ``injured the day Shed Ten burned down.'' 
Reynolds said nothing. ``Come,'' the woman said, ``Madam is expecting you.'' 
Inside the house things were pretty much as he remembered, except the door to what  had been Buch's study was open and the room converted to a sitting room. He didn't sit,  but paced back and forth for a while. Then he saw her. She descended the stairs slowly. 
Sherry had changed, become more mature, perhaps more beautiful. ``Eric,'' she said, ``I  thought you were dead.'' He wanted to run to her, hold her close, but her forced coolness  stopped him. 
``My name is. . . '' he began, but she cut him off by holding her hand up. 
``I don't want to know.'' 
She motioned him to sit down and asked Mariah to bring them coffee. They talked  small talk: about his injuries; how she was getting on; his marriage and his loss; how the 
Flu ravaged Germany and taken Hanna and Frau Kohler. There was a long silence. . . .. 
``You father wanted me to deliver a message,'' he said. ``That he died doing his  duty. . . and that he loved you.'' 
She sat stoically, cold, rigid. Tears collected in her eyes, welled over , and coursed  down her cheeks. 
``Duty,'' she said sadly. ``Murder, rape, war. It's not your fault, just doing your duty.'' 
She rose from her chair and walked toward the window. ``Is that your excuse for using  me.'' 
Reynolds stood and walked after her, ``I never. . . '' he stammered, 
``You used me,'' she spit, ``like you used Mariah, except you never paid me.'' 
She reached out and slapped him, hard. He pulled her to him, holding her close. 
``I love you,'' he whispered, ``that was always real.'' 

She stiffened and pushed him away. ``Real?'' 
She wiped the tears from her face. ``I have only loved two men in my life,'' she said. 
``One is dead and the other? I'm not sure he ever lived.'' 
She moved to put some distance between them. ``I know the foundation of love is  trust.'' She turned to face him, ``I could love you, but never trust you.'' 
He began to protest, when a little face appeared. A two­year­old bundle of energy  streaked across the room and held his arms up to Sherry, who picked him up and cradled  him. 
``Mariah came to us saying she was carrying my father's child,'' she said. ``Given her  profession. . . well. . . but as you can see he has much Buch in him. I've adopted him so he  will legally come into his birthright.'' 
Reynolds looked at the child. His eyes and hair were truly Buch characteristics, but it  was the boy's ear that riveted his attention. 
``Hello,'' the boy said shyly. ``I am Otto.'' 
``Hello,'' Reynolds hesitated. ``I am --- Eric.'' 
``Say good­bye to Herr Dantzler,'' Sherry said to the boy. ``He is just leaving.'' 
``Good­bye,'' Reynolds said feeling pain in his throat from choking back his emotions. 
He took his hat and left from the house. 
As he sped away, Reynolds was thinking not of Sherry but of the child. It was true,  he'd inherited Buch's eyes and hair. His other features were all too familiar, he had to look  at them every day in a mirror. Then there was the ear! On the left side near the top was  a semicircular mark as if a small bite had been taken out of it. His hand went to his own  ear, which had a similar deformity, as had his brothers, his father, and all the men­folk in  his family. 
He pulled into Mueller's garage. ``Gustav,'' he called. 
``Gustav, the car is yours.'' 
The boy beamed and had to be jostled by his father to say thank you. 
Reynolds removed his bag and cane. Mueller volunteered to take him wherever he  wanted to go, but he stood silent for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. ``If it's all  right,'' he said, ``I'd rather walk.'' 
Mueller and Gustav watched the thin man in a brown suit, slightly stooped, heavily  depending on the cane in his right hand, his old weather­beaten carpetbag in his left, slowly  walk away. 
Sherry sat on the swing holding the child, sobbing quietly and wondering if she had  made the right decision. She would never know. She rose and carried the boy to his bedroom  and put him down in his crib. The sleepy child fumbled around for his favorite toy that he  hugged close as he drifted off. It was the model zeppelin from Buch's desk. Some of the  paint had rubbed off and all the engine pods were gone, but on the nose could still be seen  the faded letters `LZ 99'. 

The Device 
England, the present 
ATTENTION 
GAS 
EXTREMELY HAZARDOUS 
TO BE HANDLE BY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. 
TYPE NOX78--45738--17 
SIZE 12 ff 45 feet, or 3.65 ff 13.7 meters 
QUANTITY 5086.8 cu ft, or 50 cubic meters 
WEIGHT 30520 lbs (15.2 tons) or 13872 kilograms 
NOTES Center 500 kilos type 54--7 
FUSE Unknown 
This was the message that Professor Wainwright had handed to Lemoyne. 
Colonel Brickland contacted his people who, after a search of the most qualified Chemi­  cal, Biological, Nuclear warfare units in the world, contacted the Americans. A CBN warfare  unit was quickly shipped to England from Ft Mead, Maryland, USA. They took the infor­  mation written on the bomb and did an extensive data search. It took two days before  they compiled the data. The head of the unit, Major Maitland, was a small, skinny, mousy  looking man with a sharp nose and scraggly mustache that made Lemoyne feel he should  offer him a piece of cheese. He was called in to brief all the parties involved, which had  grown considerably in the last two weeks since the bomb was discovered. 
``You done got yourselves into a lot of crap,'' he remarked in a distinct southern drawl. 
``We had to pull out all the stops and dig deep. This type --- NOX78--45738--17 is the grand 
daddy of all modern nerve gases. It was derived from pesticide experiments, but never used,  cause it was simply too dangerous and not tactically practical.'' 
``Tactically practical?'' A member of the press sang out, even though they were sup­  posed to be silent observers. The evacuation area had been extended to a five­kilometer  radius around the site. The true nature of the problem had been kept from the public to  avoid a panic. Of course, the press got wind of the evacuations and started to yell about  their god given right to scare the crap out of the populace, which would have caused a lit­  eral riot. The government had enough problems. The press was told some representatives  could follow the story, but could not print it under penalty of death until the bomb, and the  situation had been defused. The Prime Minister was not joking about this. An American  news helicopter had been forced down by the Royal Air Force and the reporters where now  behind bars shouting about their constitutional rights, forgetting they were not in America. 
Major Maitland ignored the question. ``The gas is a contact type, meaning it need only  touch the skin to be absorbed into the body. It is normally a liquid, vaporized by a catalytic  reaction with air and a chemical mixed with it for that purpose. It is odorless, tasteless and  colorless. Unlike more modern gases, it is slow acting. A person receiving a lethal dose will  take 5 to 10 minutes to die. There are convulsions and internal bleeding. It is a particularly  painful death. It is a heavy gas and will tend to seek low areas. This is one reason it was  tactically unusable. Friendly troops couldn't occupy any land where it had been used. Even  walking in a small puddle of the stuff would be fatal. The last and most lethal point. It is  rendered inactive by exposure to ultra violet rays in sunlight. This process is, however, very  slow. A small concentration might take up to two weeks before it is rendered harmless. A  large concentration could take months. If it seeks a place that is dark it can remain potent  indefinitely.'' He stopped and took a deep breath, ``Like I said gentlemen, some very nasty  stuff.'' 
``OK, now to some real unpleasantness,'' he said, stepping up to a map of the London  area. ``If the case simply cracks we are looking at a kill area, where there simply will not be  any living thing, of four square kilometers or approximately two square miles. A casualty  area of 10 clicks or 5 square miles. If the explosive core lights off, we can look at least double  those figures. The bomb was originally planned, to be an air burst that would have killed  everything within a ten mile radius.'' 
``Cheery bugger,'' Colonel Brickland whispered. 
``Apparently the Krauts really wanted to put it to ya,'' Major Maitland concluded,  much to the discomfort of a group of German representatives. 
The colonel quickly took over the meeting. ``How did it get here?'' Someone shouted. 
``Zeppelin,'' the colonel answered quickly. ``Had to be a zeppelin. 
The really important meeting had been conducted in the early morning hours. They  kicked around questions of disposal, containment and --- disarming. Explosive Ordinance 
Demolition experts from France, Belgium and Germany were represented, but for reasons  political as much as anything else, the dubious honor went to Peter Lemoyne's, Section 
6, Royal Engineers, Ordinance Disposal Department. Lemoyne and Holmes would do the 
actual disarming. Champion protested that he also participate, but Lemoyne said he would  be more valuable assisting on top. In reality, it was the vision of Champion's wife, pregnant  with their second child, coddling their two­year­old son that swayed Lemoyne's decision. It  is better the young men stay behind. All the pain, terror and death that has been spent in  war were caused by foolish old men sending naive young men to die for their foolishness. 
The army spent the night building a containment tent that, it was hoped, would contain  any spillage. Unfortunately it would be of little use in the event of an explosion. The tent was  fully air conditioned, and a plethora of TV cameras would record every movement within. 
They awoke to the sound of the camp being dismantled. Most of the people were being  taken far away to `safe' areas. Only a handful of people remained. Holmes had risen before 
Lemoyne and made arrangements for breakfast. ``No coffee?'' Lemoyne grumbled. 
``We'll be down there awhile with no bathrooms,'' Holmes explained. 
After breakfast they suited up, which took the best part of an hour. In addition to  body armor, they were given full rubber chemical suits that covered their entire bodies,  including a full helmet to which a hose, connected to a compressor mounted far from the pit,  that supplied air. They communicated by radio. ``You ready?'' Lemoyne asked and got a  nod in return. They waddled out to the tent and into the pit. All their tools and equipment  were already laid out and the army had supplied some very bright lights that, unfortunately,  raised the temperature in the tent to a level the air conditioners had a hard time handling. 
They ran into problems immediately. The suits were hard to move around in. They  kept getting their hoses tangled. The radio crackled. Sweat from Lemoyne's forehead kept  rolling into his eyes and he had no way of wiping it off. The tools were hard to use while  wearing the gloves even though they had been specifically designed for that purpose. 
``You know, Charles, if this thing goes, this suit won't give us a whole lot of protection,'' 
Lemoyne said. ``I think Professor Wainwright was right.'' 
``I agree,'' he replied, ``let's at least take off the helmets and gloves.'' 
``That is not recommended,'' crackled the radio. They did it anyway. What could  anyone do? 
Now they could see what they were doing. The fuse was simply a canister 15 cm wide  with 27 cm protruding from the bomb. There was no way to determine the true length as it  was screwed into a fitting mounted in the center of the device. It was in fairly good shape  considering it had been under water for three­quarters of a century. However, it seemed to  contain a number of dents, as if someone had attacked it with a hammer. At the end, they  could make out a rust covered threaded shaft and nut that held on the outer case. The first  step would be to remove the case. As the nut that held it was well frozen in place, they  decided to cut it off. A small battery powered grinder with a cutting wheel was used to  carefully cut slots in opposite ends of the nut. Then a small chisel was inserted and struck  ever so gently with a hammer. The lower half of the nut fell free. A little more persuasion  with the hammer and the upper piece fell free. A small plastic mallet was tapped repeatedly  all over the case with no result. They did more tapping with a steel hammer this time. 
Applied a few squirts of penetrating fluid. More taps. More fluid. The case refused to 
budge. Lemoyne finally took a pocketknife and placed it at the juncture between the flange  and the shell, then gently struck it with the hammer. 
Their hearts stopped as they heard a hissing sound. An unknown sound was not a  welcomed sound. They stood absolutely still for a few seconds then, not feeling any ill  effects, such as a violent explosion, Lemoyne continued to tap the knife blade around the  circumference of the flange. After that, the case came away easily, but they still removed it  with the greatest of care. Lemoyne drew it back, while Holmes checked the interior with a  dental mirror and a flashlight. There was the remote possibility the case would be connected  to a trigger mechanism that could detonate the bomb, which would almost certainly be  the case had this been a WW II bomb. There was no problem and the case came away  clean, revealing the actual fuse. It was in gleaming, pristine, condition. The case had been  hermetically sealed and the hissing was the higher atmospheric pressure leaking into the  lower pressure in the case. There appeared to be some slotted pouches built in the case that  contained desiccant to absorb moisture. They worked extremely well. There was not a spot  of corrosion to be seen in the mechanism. ``Damn those Germans,'' Holmes muttered. ``They  just must build everything to perfection.'' 
Screwed on to the end of the fuse was a canister of priming explosive. The whole  thing had been finished in baked enamel and was practically impervious to corrosion. They  studied the unit for a long time. It appeared to have two separate firing mechanisms. A  barometric one that would have activated the mechanism at a given altitude and another on  a timer set to fire after a given time. Both were connected to a single trigger mechanism. 
The whole unit was mechanical, spring loaded, like an alarm clock. A very sophisticated  alarm clock. There was no provision for a direct contact fuse. It was never intended to hit  the ground, but rather to explode in mid air. Holmes got out a magnifying glass and a set  of dental picks. He probed and pricked, humming all the while. Lemoyne sat on the toolbox  and reached for a spray bottle containing water to wash away dirt. He sprayed a bit in his  mouth, swished it around and spit. 
``Look at this,'' Holmes beckoned him near. 
He handed Lemoyne the magnifying glass and pointed to a small hole in the timer  mechanism. ``I think this is where the ground safety pin fitted in.'' 
Lemoyne jiggled with the glass and the light. ``It looks like,'' he straighten up and  looked at Holmes, ``a piece of the pin?'' 
``That's what I think too.'' Holmes grinned. ``It broke off in the hole. That's why it  never went off. 
They decided the easiest way to disarm the trigger mechanism would be to drill a small  hole in the case next to a recessed shaft that, no doubt, had a gear on the other end. The  hole would pass through the case, through the gear and out through the other side. They  could then insert a pin in the hole, thereby locking the timer in place. 
``Just like old times, uh Captain?'' Holmes smiled. 
``I don't recall being called out to disarm a giant gas canister like this,'' Lemoyne an­  swered. ``I remember a lot of dirty, rusty, heavy artillery shells and iron bombs --- thousands 
of the damn things.'' 
Holmes handed Lemoyne a portable drill with a 2mm drill bit chucked in it that he  placed about a centimeter from the recessed shaft. The bit started to bite into metal,  tossing out silvery bits, then it started to strain. Holmes squirted oil on the bit to prevent  overheating, but soon hot smoke and the smell of hot oil wafted gently in the air. After a few  minutes there was a small pop as the drill finished penetrating the case. Lemoyne turned  the drill off and probed until he found the gear. Then with another shot of oil, he was ready  to drill the gear. The gear seemed made of sterner stuff and resisted the drill. 
``Stop,'' Holmes announced. 
Lemoyne stopped. The soft sound sounded unusually loud in the pit. The damn thing  was ticking. Not the steady tick tock of a clock, but a fast staccato tick tick tick like a  little machine gun. The little 75­year­old safety pin piece had either dropped out, or broken,  probably from the vibration caused by the drill. The was no point in trying to ram a new  pin in there as the holes were no longer aligned. 
``Damn!'' Lemoyne shouted, then applied more pressure to the drill. Even over the  noise of the drill, the ticking could be heard clearly. He didn't have time to be scared and  silently prayed the drill bit didn't shatter. The ticking stopped and he could feel the drill  biting the metal. In seconds there was another small pop and the bit was through the gear. 
Another few seconds and it was out the other side. He stopped drilling. They stood for a  moment looking at each other enjoying the silence. Now was the time to be scared. 
``Give me the chuck key.''` 
The drill bit was still in the hole with the drill still attached. Lemoyne decided to leave  the drill bit in the hole and allow it to act as the safety pin. Carefully he inserted the chuck  key and gave it a slight turn. It resisted and he had to be very careful not to allow any undo  stress on the brittle bit. If it shattered there was no way of knowing where it would shatter. 
The trigger could be freed and the timer started again. 
``Can you mix me a little putty?'' Lemoyne asked. 
He held the drill bit in place while Holmes mixed the epoxy putty. He smeared the  stuff around the drill bit and the hole he had drilled, then dipped his fingers into the water at  the bottom of the pit and smoothed it out. In a few minutes you would need a hammer and  chisel to get the drill bit out. When the putty had hardened, Lemoyne chucked another bit  into the drill and drilled another hole about an inch higher than the first, but only through  the outer casing. Holmes had mixed a batch of liquid epoxy, which he poured into a syringe. 
Lemoyne inserted the needle of the syringe into the hole and squeezed the epoxy out of the  syringe. They repeated this process until the entire trigger mechanism was filled with the  stuff. 
They leaned against the pit walls and waited while the stuff solidified, thereby making  it impossible for the trigger to function, no matter what. ``We should have brought some  coffee, uh Charles,'' Lemoyne sighed. 
``Yes, Captain. I was wrong on that.'' 

He took an aerosol can of penetrating oil and sprayed it at the area where the fuse was  screwed into the bomb. 
Eventually Lemoyne tapped the epoxy and found it rock hard. The drill bit that was  acting as the lock could not move. The trigger mechanism was totally incapacitated. They  were ready to remove the fuse. 
``Well,'' Holmes said, ``the hard part's over. Just bull work now.'' 
The fuse was installed with a large spanner wrench with a matching set of lugs molded  on to the bombshell. They fished around in the toolbox until they found the proper sizes. 
Then they withdrew two lengths of iron pipe three feet or so long which fit around the  handles of the wrenches giving them extra leverage. 
``Will you be all right?'' Lemoyne asked Holmes. 
``No problem,'' he smiled. ``It's precision work I have problems with. I'm strong as an  ox. My wife says I'm as smart as one too.'' 
They positioned the two pipe wrenches, Holmes on the molded fitting protruding from  bomb and Lemoyne's on the fuse casing. Holmes' job was simply to take the stress off the  fitting. Lemoyne's would be to loosen the fuse without crushing it. Although even if the  fuse casing was to break, the odds were slim it would explode. 
``Right or left?'' Lemoyne asked meaning right or left threads. 
``Right,'' Holmes answered with a shrug. It was the most common type and there was  no reason the thing would have left handed threads. 
Lemoyne braced himself and began to pull the handle of the wrench towards him in a  steady pull, ready to ease off at the slightest movement. 
The damn thing didn't budge. ``Maybe we should have brought Champion,'' Lemoyne  said. ``He lifts weights, jogs and does all those things we did twenty years ago.'' 
Holmes just grunted. 
The handle moved. 
Not very much, just the barest millimeter, but it meant the rust had surrendered. 
``Here it goes,'' Lemoyne whispered aloud. 
It gave a horrible high­pitched screech, like the death of some ancient monster. The  handle started to move in a long steady arc. 
Crack! 
The sound was like a pistol shot. A stream of brown, evil smelling, fluid squirted from  the base of the fitting, splashing directly into Holmes's chest. He stared down at it, a look of  horror over his face, as if his chest had exploded. Both of them dropped the wrenches into  the mud. Lemoyne moved quickly to assess the damage. He had once heard the difference  between a hero and a coward is, the coward takes the time to note which directions he's  running. He moved to get a better view. A portion of the fitting had simply cracked off,  leaving a hole the size of his thumb with a crack emanating from it. He jammed his thumb 
in the hole and pressed his forefinger to the crack. He did this because he didn't even think  of what else to do. The stream slowed to a steady drip. 
He looked back at Holmes and saw his own fear reflected there. They were dead. The  liquid would turn to gas quickly and they would die, gasping like fish, eyes bulging, tongues  lolling out. Everyone had heard one's life is supposed to flash before you at this moment, but  that was not the case with Lemoyne. Instead, he remembered a moment long ago, sitting in  the sand at the beach, building a sandcastle with his little daughter. He closed his eyes and  could smell the salt sea, hear the cry of the gulls, see his girl's face pinched in concentration  as she dug in the sand. 
Lemoyne opened his eyes and looked again at Holmes. His expression of fear had been  replaced by confusion. They had not died, nor even become ill. The putrid liquid was not  turning to gas at all. Without a word Holmes crawled over to the toolbox and extracted a  small glass jar that he filled with the brown fluid. He opened another drawer in the toolbox  and started to perform some sort of magic to the stuff. His back was to Lemoyne who could  not see what he was doing. Holmes turned with a flourish sniffed, poked and felt the stuff. 
``Water,'' he announced. 
``Water?'' 
``Dirty, rusty, smelly, stinky, water,'' he started to laugh, ``and there you stand with  your finger in the dike, like some large yellow Dutch boy.'' 
Lemoyne pulled his hand out of the hole and the liquid shot across the pit. Holmes  reached into the toolbox and extracted a cork approximately the size of the hole. Lemoyne  stuck the cork in the hole and, with the help of a hammer, the stream quickly subsided to a  steady drip. They both started to laugh --- to laugh uncontrollably as if this was the greatest  practical joke ever. They both plopped into the mud and laughed. 
After their laughing jag, they composed ourselves and again attacked the fuse that now  screwed out quite easily. The explosive that had filled the center pipe started to pour out. 
Either a crack or corrosion had allowed water to soak into it and the once powerful explosive  was now a black thick goo, which since it contained mostly nitrates and ammonia, smelled  to high heaven. As it plopped into the water causing their nostrils to burn, Lemoyne felt as  if he were standing at the wrong end of a cow with diarrhea. 
Lemoyne lifted the fuse, which was now no more dangerous than any of the other  thousands of similar sized artillery shells they handled yearly. He looked at Holmes and  said. ``I guess we're through here.'' 
Holmes just nodded. 
``Water,'' Colonel Brickland said incredulously, ``just water?'' 
They had been a sight. The two of them emerged from the pit wearing the silly looking  yellow suits covered in mud and goo, smelling like a cesspool. The colonel had come out to  greet them as they walked to the tent that had been set up as a decontamination unit. It  contained showers and clean clothes. 
``Yes,'' Holmes explained, ``the fuse had been set, but never activated. The bomb hit  the water in the pond and sank into the mud. Over the decades, the shell rusted through 
causing little pinholes. The gas had leaked out, ever so slowly, made its way to the surface  and dissipated. May have killed a few frogs, but nothing else. As the gas leaked out, the  water leaked in.'' 
Lemoyne suddenly remembered why his father stopped bringing him here to fish. The  fish had died and the whole swamp stank worse than usual. 
``Then it's safe?'' Brickland asked incredulously 
``Except for this,'' Lemoyne said hefting the twenty pound fuse onto a bench, ``it's  harmless junk.'' 
``Colonel, you can tell Mr. Brooks he may now entertain the kiddies,'' Lemoyne prac­  tically sang. 
``And you my friend,'' he said, putting his arm around Holmes' shoulders, ``can take  all that government money and treat me to a filet mignon and a bottle of champagne.'' 
``But, of course,'' Holmes laughed and wrinkled his nose, ``but bathe first.'' 
``I'll take that,'' Champion offered, reliving Lemoyne of the fuse assembly. His truck  had been specially built to transport shells. 
``Thank you.'' Lemoyne said, handing him the fuse and turning toward the decontam­  ination tent for a shower and clean clothes. ``I'll meet you back at the offce in about an  hour.'' 
Champion, cradling the fuse like a baby, began walking toward his truck. 
``All of this fuss,'' said the colonel, ``and there really was no danger at all?'' 
Lemoyne shook his head, ``None at all.'' 
Champion carefully opened the back of the bombproof truck, gently laid the ancient  device in the bed and began to close the door. Inside the canister something shifted that  had not shifted for seventy­five years. An electrical charge smaller than a firefly's jumped  from one molecule to another. The two molecules united rapidly, which caused others to  do the same, very fast, very violently. The fuse exploded. Bits of metal were propelled at  supersonic speeds and a deadly wave of pressure and heat expanded rapidly. 
From behind Lemoyne came a low rumble and a warm breeze stung the back of his  neck. 
``Please, God, let that be thunder.'' 
Lemoyne turned quickly and gazed at the scene. The smoke billowing out of the back  of the truck told all. He started to run. By the time he got to the truck two army medics  were attending Champion. Lemoyne could smell the sulfur odor of burnt hair. Champion lay  prone of the ground, his face looked sunburned and his hair was still smoldered. Lemoyne  expected the worse. Although Champion's body was intact Lemoyne knew even a low  pressure concussion was deadly. Behind him an Army ambulance pulled up and discharged  a doctor who leaped upon Champion, probing, poking and gazing into his eyes. He broke an  ammonia ampoule under Champions nose. The big man moved, shook his head and opened  his eyes. 

``Thank god,'' Lemoyne muttered. 
``How many fingers,'' The doctor shouted, his hand in a victory sign. 
``What!?'' said Champion. 
``What's your name?'' the doctor asked. 
``What!?'' said Champion pointing at his ears and shrugging. 
``Never mind,'' the doctor replied, laughing. He then spent a few more minutes ex­  amining the man. ``Take him to the field hospital. Get a chest x­ray,'' the doctor told the  medics. ``I'll be along later. 
After they had Champion on a stretcher, Lemoyne spoke to him. ``I'll be over to see  you,'' Lemoyne shouted. Champion gave a weak thumbs up. 
The doctor walked over to Lemoyne. ``He'll be fine,'' he said. ``Apparently the door  took most of the blast, tossed him ass over teacups. He took a face full of hot air and won't  look pretty for awhile. At least not before his eyebrows grow in. Nothing's broken, but I  want to check his ribs. His hearing loss is only temporary.'' 
``Thank, God,'' said Lemoyne.'' 
Lemoyne gazed in the air. With his minds eye he imagined a long slim zeppelin sailing  majestically across the sky, a man made cloud. He could imagine the terror, both of those  in the air and those on the ground. There was a story connected to that bomb and the men  who dropped it. But he would never know it. 
He said. ``What did the press call them back then?'' 
Holmes looked at the setting sun. ``Monsters of the purple twilight.'' 
``Life's funny,'' said the doctor as he looked up at the clear blue sky. ``When I awoke  this morning, I would never thought I'd treat the last casualty of World War One.'' 
END