If at first, you don’t succeed…

Big Ben had just struck noon. I had been asked to come out of retirement for a special mission. The Queen had asked me to investigate a person of interest who left for the States on the 11:15 flight from Heathrow. They had bought into the idea that this person knew something about a mysterious flying object seen over a military base.

It had been years since I had been in the States.

Opting to arrive hours before they did, the Concord was my best bet. If all went to plan, I could greet them at the gate. The goal was to interrogate them and then enjoy time away from my usual tasks, which grew mundane.

The Queen and I parted company before I headed to Heathrow. She gave me an uncharacteristic nod as I was leaving. “Mr. Smith, don’t forget your attaché case.”

My case had been stored by the queens’ guards while we had tea. I thought little of it at the time when her people delivered it.

We chased the sun on its arc through the heavens as we passed the 747 en route to New York.

My mind wandered to my case overhead. It was not much larger than a briefcase, so the weight didn’t feel right when I grabbed it. With the open latch, my suspicions were met with total disbelief.

My papers, change of clothes, and so forth were not in the case. There were large quantities of American money from the 1930s.

My eyes opened wide as I peered at some electronic contraptions like nothing I had ever seen. Illuminated numbers counted backward, much like a timer counting down. My heart raced as sudden beads of sweat formed on my brow.

3..2..1… was the last thing I would see on this flight.

Lights flashed, the world spun, and the sounds of the jet’s engines changed to a slight purring sound of propellers. The echoes were barely perceptible above the chattering of those peering out windows facing downward along the room’s sides.

“Sir, would you like your morning tea now?” He spoke in British idioms with a heavy German accent.

The air was muggy, and the aroma of different foods was in the air. I glanced around to see that we were in a small dining room. I later learned it was the promenade deck of an airship.

I shook my head in disbelief. The attire of the rest of the patrons fit the period. What was this thing in my case? Why did the numbers now say 23:58.45? Why was there a roll of duct tape along with the rest of this stuff?

A man in a white coat peered down at me and my open case. I closed it, glancing back at him. “Tea?” “Yes…tell me, where are we?”

He smiled after seeing the enormous amount of money in my case. “24 hours from Lakehurst, Sir. Of course, we must put on a show for the New Yorkers, which will add an hour.”

The patrons were talking about a vessel below and marveling at how seasick they were when they took that ship from New York. One lady admired that this ride was smooth and had no hint of seasickness. She was incredibly jovial and caught my attention. She was in her late teens, by my account.

It was as if I were in some elaborately staged event. Their speech usage and colloquialisms were not of my time. Everything around me seemed surreal. I checked my vest pocket for my phone. The apps were there, but there was no time or date and no service.

In my carry-on, I found a ticket from Frankfurt to New Jersey. My room number was on the key. When I saw the name ‘Hindenburg,’ I gasped, causing my server to take notice.

“Sir, your Tea,” he yelled as I stood to find my room.

“Later.”

I scurried off, feeling like I was about to pass out or puke. I hoped there would be more clues in my cabin.

I checked the closet, the bureau, and a little table with a mirror and washbasin. I was shocked to see a much younger version of myself staring back at me. I collapsed on the chair when I noticed a floral array.

The flowers and vase were different too. There was a small card attached.

My hands trembled as I reached for the card.

Mr. Smith, I chose you for the task of correcting history. Find Emma Spencer and keep her safe. This ship was not supposed to explode when it did. History told of a leak in the hydrogen bags. You might be able to seal the leak with this tape. The timeline must be restored. Should you succeed, the money is yours.

Good Luck, Mr. Smith. -QE.

Gob smacked didn’t begin to describe my state of mind. Since there was no computer, cell phone, Google, or other technology. Most of the apps on my phone were dependent upon the internet. It was basically worthless. I searched the floral array to find a small electronic device. There was a switch on the bottom. It was holographic. When I turned it off, the vase and flowers vanished. All that was left was the device.

I searched for papers in the smoking lounge.

Imagine a smoking lounge on a ship with tons of explosive hydrogen gas only meters away from open flames; brilliant.

Emma found my use of language fascinating. I bought us drinks while listening to the other patrons. Not only was my youth restored, but my thoughts were torn between the impending danger and the fair Miss Emma Spencer.

My German was not very good, but the paper gave me the needed date. May 3^rd, 1937. That was two days ago.

What manner of technology did the Queen possess, and why pick me? Time was fleeting. I had damned little of it left if I were to complete my task.

Money talks, even among the crew. My first investment was to purchase a tour of the axial corridor from Herman, the waiter. That axial corridor stems from the ship’s length in the middle of the gas bags. My inspection turned up nothing. I remembered that hydrogen has no odor, and there were no fancy detectors in 1937, or were there?

That afternoon I looked through my bag. Whoever put me up to this task supplied what they thought I might need.

Emma and I met again and relaxed in the lounge until the sun was about to set. The band played on as many danced the evening away. This was undoubtedly not the Concord.

Under the cloak of darkness, I traversed the axial corridor hiding from the crew. With my duct tape and my detector in hand, the beeping sound alerted me to a hole in one of the gas bags. A sharp edge on a beam, along with hundreds of hours of vibration, caused one of the bags to leak. As I taped the last hole, there was turbulence causing me to drop my phone that I used as a flashlight. There was a clunk, a clang, and then nothing.

The light vanished in the depth of the ship. I thought it might be on the roof of the crew’s quarters, but I couldn’t be sure.

Duct tape, a product yet to be invented, slowed the leak.

Without my flashlight, I crawled back to my point of ingress. My clothes had become a collection of dirt from the area.

I tossed and turned the entire rest of the night. ‘What if’ scenarios played through my mind.

Crossing over the Statue of Liberty, time would tell if I succeeded.

We were over twelve hours late due to the formation of a thunderstorm. The gust front pushed us back over the ocean as we fought against the headwind. Lightening crackled around us as I wondered if residual hydrogen was close to any vents. Suspension cables hissed with coronal discharge as even the tiniest hair on my arms stood as if at attention.

Static electricity formed on the wires that secured the airbags.

I chewed my nails until we landed, after which Emma and I fled the landing field.

Standard Oil was another investment. As a board member, I mentioned that combustible gas should be impregnated with an odor, so gas leaks could be detected.

The Zeppelin did eventually fail, crashing somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Years later, Emma and I returned to the U.K. The Queen was elated to see her sister and was happy that I was the one she married.

Whenever I brought up the subject, she winked and said nothing. Thanks to my time on the airship, I was among the wealthiest men alive.

All my wealth could not stop the aging process. Emma succumbed to old age.

I was called to see the Queen. We were both under the doctor's care when she produced two attaché cases.

“What's this?”

She glanced at me and smiled. “One of these is for me and the other for you. How do you feel about taking a cruise?”

Usually, one would ask where, but I knew that case, and by now, I knew her pretty well.

“When?”

“1912, you will be the captain. If you play your cards right, you won't have to go down with the ship.”

We sat in her study and opened the lids to see those same electronics staring us in the face. Pushing a button, the countdown began. Lights swirled, and the silence of the castle was replaced with a live band and the odor of cigar smoke. I looked up from the roasted pigeon before me to see her also taking in our new environment.

“Captain Smith, they are asking permission to bring our speed to 22 knots,” A man said.

“Excuse me, Miss Molly, I have some official business to tend to.” I got up, glancing around the room. What would happen if I told them no? I wondered.

The Titanic made it safe and sound to the US and then back to England. Margaret, aka Molly, never earned the title of unsinkable.

We each went our own way, with our attaché’ cases in hand, vowing to see each other again… and again.