Five seconds after Alex Dalton's excited declaration of 'Hindenburg!', Jo Schmidt had the historical files up on her library computer screen.
"The LZ-129 Hindenburg... length 804 feet... was destroyed on May 6, 1937 at 1925 hours. That's a minute-and-a-half from now!"
"Time to intercept?" demanded Captain Cross of Dexter.
"One minute, fifteen seconds," replied the young copilot.
"Thirty five people died in the disaster," continued Jo. "There were several theories about what caused the explosion, but no one ever found out for sure what happened."
"Until now," said Cross. "An alien bomb."
"What are you planning to do, Captain?" asked Alex. "If we interfere we'll be changing history."
"The Suliban are already changing history," replied Cross. "Just like the Borg tried to do ten years ago when they went back to kill Zephram Cochrane." There was a grim, determined expression on his face. "And I can't just stand by while dozens of people get killed."
"I can keep us above the storm clouds, sir," suggested Dexter. "At least no one on the ground will see the Crockett.
"Do it," said Cross. He turned to Alex and Jo, thinking furiously. "You two. Man the transporter. I want you to beam up everyone who's going to get killed in the fire. Tie the replicators in with the transporter and replace the people you beam up with replicated organic matter that looks like it's been burned -- that way no one will ever know anyone's missing.
Alex and Jo sprang from their chairs and headed aft through the cockpit doors into the small transporter room that separated the cockpit from the living spaces in the rear of the small ship.
Cross reseated himself at the pilot's position. "I'll keep us in a holding pattern above the Hindenburg," he told Dexter. "You use the fancy sensors we've got on this thing and get locks on the people down there. Feed the data to the transporter."
As Dexter worked to comply with Cross' orders, Cross gazed out the forward viewport, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the doomed German airship, but the cloud cover was thick and obscured everything beneath. Relying on sensors, he set the Crockett on a wide, looping circuit above the New Jersey landscape.
Below at the Lakehurst Naval Air Station, ground crew prepared to moor the great zeppelin to the mooring towers. At the edges of the airfield, hundreds of eager onlookers watched as the largest airship ever built came in on its final approach, reporters readied microphones and cleared their throats in preparation, and cameramen pointed their instruments skyward, ready to record history in the making. None suspected that history was about to take a severe left turn, and none could imagine that five miles above, a ship from the future circled, watching the human drama unfold.
It was fifteen seconds before Armageddon and Cross had never felt so helpless. Every fiber of his being screamed out to help those people on board the Hindenburg, but he was forbidden to do so. Not only was the Prime Directive in full force, but the very future of humanity hung in the balance. The tragedy about to happen had to play out as it had before. It was one of those situations that no amount of Academy training can prepare you for.
But there was something about this whole situation that bothered Cross. Something wasn't right; there was something that didn't add up. He didn't know what it was or why he even thought so, but he was sure nonetheless. His subconscious had noticed something, and he had learned long ago never to ignore his subconscious voice. He could almost put his finger on the missing element, but whatever it was remained elusive... and then there was no more time!
Five miles below the Crockett, two hundred feet above the ground, the tail section of the doomed zeppelin Hindenburg burst into flame. Seven million cubic feet of pure hydrogen gas ignited in a flame hotter than perdition itself, and in mere seconds, the entire airship was engulfed. As the tail section had lost buoyancy first, it sagged to the ground and the nose of the Hindenburg pointed into the flaming night sky like a sinner in hell beseeching mercy from the heavens. Matthew Cross could do nothing but watch in horror.
In the compartment behind the cockpit, shielded from the catastrophic spectacle unfolding outside their vessel by the absence of windows, Jo and Alex worked furiously at the transporter controls.
"I'm not sure I can program the replicators to create realistic fake burned bodies," said Alex worriedly. She was hunched over a console along the starboard wall of the small room.
From the other side of the five-person transporter pad that took up most of the center of the room, Jo looked up briefly from her own hurried preparations. "You're the engineer, so if anyone can do it, you can," she said encouragingly. "Besides, the twentieth century didn't have our modern forensics techniques. I'm sure whatever you come up with will be good enough."
The transporter console beeped, recalling Jo's attention. "Ready or not, here we go!" she called over to Alex.
"Ready!" the sunny blonde replied.
The transporter hummed to life and five sparkling columns appeared over the pads and quickly coalesced into five extremely confused looking people. Their old-fashioned clothing was singed, and the little transporter room was instantly filled with the smell of smoke.
Alex quickly herded the group through the aft door into the Crockett's spacious living area, making room for the next batch. Jo had already started the materialization sequence even before the last arrival had stepped off - there was no time to waste if they were going to rescue everyone.
Below, some people managed to jump from the burning wreckage and save themselves, some ran from the wreckage as it hit the ground. Ground crew ran every which way, some towards the stricken airship in heroic efforts to help, some away from the conflagration as fast as their feet could carry them. Hundreds of terrified onlookers screamed as they watched the disaster.
From his vantage point at the edge of the airfield, Chicago radio reporter Herb Morrison did his best to continue recording until he was finally overcome by the horrible tragedy he was witnessing. "It burst into flames!" he cried. "It burst into flames! Oh! Get out of the way -- it's crashing! It's crashing! It's falling on the mooring mast! It's one of the worst catastrophes in the world! The smoke and the flame and the frame is crashing to the ground -- Oh the humanity and all the passengers! Oh I can't talk..."
Deep within the conflagration, the flames trapped many terrified passengers and crew, leaving them unable to escape the burning Hindenburg and condemning them to a horrible, agonizing death. Away from living eyes and cameras and camouflaged by the fires, columns of golden sparkles engulfed these people, snatching them from the jaws of doom.
"That's it, sir!" said Dexter excitedly. "I think we got them all."
"How many?" asked Cross.
"Thirty-five people and a German Shepherd."
"A dog?" Cross listened, and he could indeed hear the barking of a large dog coming from the rear of the Crockett. "Okay, whatever. Take us to a high orbit. I'm going back to talk to our passengers."
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