Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air by Melissa Scott, Jo Graham Page B

uniformed men with him, another Italian and a big man in a pale gray uniform that Alma recognized abruptly as the German Air Marshal, Hermann Göring. The blonde who had been with Göring at the ball was on his arm again, very handsome in a dark blue day suit, and Count von Rosen brought up the rear.  She felt her eyebrows rise, and heard Mitch whistle under his breath.
    “It’s a mixed bag, all right,” Alma agreed, and braced herself to welcome them aboard. “Air Marshal,” Alma said, extending her hand.
    “Dear lady.” Balbo bent politely over it, these gestured broadly to the people with him. “May I present Herr Göring and his lady? Herr Göring is the Reich’s Minister of Aviation.”
    “Delighted, Minister. Ma’am.” Alma didn’t dare look at Mitch or at Tiny, who was staring open-mouthed.
    “My aide, Captain Sante, and Count von Rosen.”
    “The Count and I met last night,” Alma said.
    “My first wife’s nephew,” Göring said with a smile. “And an excellent flyer in his own right.”
    Alma matched the smile, and introduced Mitch and Tiny, aware that all the men were examining the plane and each other with leashed intensity.  “As you can see, the Catalina is set up in its civilian configuration — there’s been a great deal of interest in it for the Pacific routes. Could I offer you some coffee?”
    “Very kind, dear lady,” Balbo said.
    Alma nodded to Tiny, who fetched a tray and cups from the passenger compartment and made a respectable job of serving the coffee while Alma began her practiced spiel. Predictably, Mrs. Göring exclaimed at the luxury of the passenger fittings, and at her husband’s urging, settled herself one of the well-padded chairs, stretching out small feet in blue kid pumps and expensive silk stockings.  Göring sat down next to her, nodding, and smiled up at Alma.
    “This really isn’t bad. I could imagine crossing the Pacific this way.”
    “Better than what we had in ‘33,” Balbo said.
    “There are bunks in the rear compartment,” Alma said, “and of course the cabin could be configured to allow for more sleeping space. The design is very flexible.”
    “Which is what you were looking for, right, Carl?” Göring glanced at his nephew, still smiling, and pushed himself to his feet.  He moved well despite his bulk, his hunter’s eyes missing nothing as he pulled back the curtain to examine the sleeping compartments.
    “If I were going to buy such a plane, I would certainly need it to be versatile,” von Rosen said. “One would need to carry both cargo and passengers, and to be able to vary the loads according to need.”
    “Though I’m not at all sure how this would work on a transatlantic route,” Göring went on. “One would still need to refuel, I believe, Mrs. Segura?”
    “Oh, yes. In fact, there are several possible routes, given our range.” This was a question she could answer in her sleep, and she let herself go on, listing facts and figures, while she watched von Rosen examine the interior fittings and Göring watched him. “For an American destination, I think the Air Marshal’s route through Reykjavik would be my choice.”
    “More practical for North America, certainly,” Göring answered. “Though there’s certainly a market for flights to South America.”
    “For some people,” von Rosen said. “In any case, I have been thinking I might look toward the Far East. There is money to be made there.”
    Was she imagining it, Alma thought, or did Göring relax just a fraction? “If you’d like to come forward, I’d be glad to show you the working end of the plane.”
    “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Segura, I’ll just stay here.” Frau Göring smiled up at her politely. “This is lovely coffee, and to be blunt, my feet are aching.”
    “You don’t have to come with us, darling,” Göring said. “Sante would be glad to escort you ashore.”
    “But then I would have to move.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll just