After arranging for the wreath to be sent, Misha went in search of the switchboard operator for the Hospital or at least the operator's supervisor.  He was interested to know if any personal calls had come in for Dr. Trudeau, specifically from a Mr. Harry Smith.  He also went to the front desk to see if any telegrams had been sent or received by Dr. Trudeau to or from South America.  Misha also checked the patient registry for the last week looking for a Harry Smith.

After trying to pin down some lead on Mr. Harry Smith, Misha went to consult with the Hospital's leading oncologist to discuss the views and findings expressed in the paper by Dr. Corazon-Olivera and whether Silvain had contacted the Chief Oncologist in relation to this paper.

Misha went to ask at the hospital switchboard first.  "Oh, the man with the very bad French and the raspy voice.  Yes, I remember putting him through last week, Monsieur Smith.  He called from a very noisy place, trunk line 2.  That is just outside north Paris."

The hospital's oncologist had not been contacted by Silvain, and expressed disdain at the paper of Corazon-Olivera as 'fiddle-faddle', but then he was an old man and rather set in his ways.

While still at with the switchboard operator, before going to the oncologist, Misha asked in an interested tone, "Yes I believe that is the man, probably an American from the sounds of it.  Do you remember which day last week M. Smith called and if he asked for Dr. Trudeau specifically?  Also did M. Smith happen to mention where he was calling from?

Did Dr. Trudeau attempt to return M. Smith's call?  I ask because I am concerned that M. Harry Smith might be a new patient of Dr. Trudeau and as such he needs to be informed about the doctor's unfortunate death.

Also should M. Smith call again for Dr. Trudeau, I would appreciate it if you forwarded the call to my office if that's possible.  I thank you again for all your assistance during this sad time."

After seeing the oncologist, who had been little to no help although that didn't completely surprise Misha, Dr. Grigorevich headed to the nearest telegraph office.  He arranged to have an overseas telegraph sent to the Hospital in Bolivia where Dr. Corazon-Olivera worked.

::: To: Dr. Corazon-Olivera of Bolivia
From: Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich of the Paris Hospital in France

Dear Dr. Corazon-Olivera, I have recently been referred to your paper on bone cancer published roughly 6 months ago.  I am a specialist in blood diseases and inherited disorders and thus I have an indirect interest in bone marrow developments.

The doctor who referred me to your paper was Dr. Silvain Trudeau who also works at the Paris Hospital.  Unfortunately Dr. Trudeau has met with an untimely death and I was not able to converse with him regarding the results presented in your paper.  I was wondering if Dr. Trudeau had contacted you about your findings and if a line of communication had been set up between you.

I would also be interested in hearing any more recent discoveries made since the first paper was published.  Thank you for your time and consideration. :::

Misha spoke to the switchboard operator. "He was not an American,"  the lady reported, with a sniff.  "He sounded like a German,"  and she could put a lot of hostility into that. "He didn't say where he was calling from, but it was very noisy...roaring sounds, swooshing sounds.  I don't know if Dr. Trudeau returned his call, or not."  She agreed to forward the call, if it came, though.

Misha headed to the telegraph office and his jaw dropped at the high cost of sending a long telegram to Bolivia.  Generally the way to use the telegrams was to be terse and concise.  The clerk asked if he would like to amend his telegram to a more, 'ah...thrifty...level."

Misha, being a medical doctor, was not well trained in brevity but he had been forced to learn thrift since the Revolution.  He tried again using the stilted phrases of common cables and waited to hear how much his revised message would cost.

:::To: To: Dr. Corazon-Olivera Bolivia
From: Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich Paris Hospital France

Have read your paper from 6 months ago on bone cancer and native cures.  I specialize in blood diseases and inherited disorders.  Have interest in bone via marrow.  Referred to paper by Dr. Silvain Trudeau of Paris Hospital.  Did Dr. Trudeau contact you?  Would be interested in news of further discoveries since paper.  Please contact me via Paris Hospital.  Thank you for time. :::

[OOC: I'm assuming the revised telegram wording works better and won't bankrupt poor Misha? ;)]

Once the telegram had been sent, Misha returned to the Hospital to check on any patients he was supposed to see or any work that may have come in for him while he was out.  While he was at his desk, he picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator to put a call through to the Northern Aerodrome located just outside Paris.

Misha was able to walk from the telegraph office with some of his wallet intact.  He headed back to the hospital, to get some work done and to try to telephone the aerodome.

It took a while; he waited while someone went to go look for this Harry Smith, then for someone else to go look for him, but at last, a voice came on the line, speaking a French that was borderline heinous, a voice raspy and rough.  Instantly Misha thought, 'larynx damage'.  "What do you want ?"  the coarse French query was, and indeed, Misha could also sense the crispness of a German accent.

In a calm and serious tone, Misha responded, "Mr. Harry Smith is it not?  My name is Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich and I work at the Paris Hospital.  I am calling you in regards to a fellow medical doctor of mine at the Paris Hospital, Dr. Silvain Trudeau.  I understand that you recently contacted him at the hospital and it is in reference to that call with Dr. Trudeau that I am calling you."

Misha decided that he would hold off on giving too much of the story away on the off chance that Mr. Smith would volunteer info which Misha didn't have yet.  Also he was wary of scaring Harry off by telling him outright from the start that Silvain was dead... just in case the topic of discussion for the earlier call was linked to poor Silvain's death in some way.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:40, Fri 17 Dec 2004.

There was a strangely creaky sound; then Misha realised the man was trying to laugh.  "And what do you have to tell me, Dr. Grigorevich ?  Silvain is dead. I read the papers."

Misha adopts a slightly impatient tone as he responds, "Mr. Smith, this call isn't about what I have to tell you... it is about what you had to tell Dr. Trudeau.  Silvain had confided a few things to me before his untimely demise.  Furthermore when I went to pick up papers he had specificly left for me there was a note which read "Call Harry Smith".

What I want to know is why Dr. Trudeau instructed me to call you and of course I can no longer ask my late friend so I am asking you.  Why did you contact him and what, if anything, did it have to do with certain recent medical discoveries in Boliva and/or how was it related to a certain Dr. Manuel Corazon-Olivera?

Silvain went out of his way to look into this matter because he knew about my interest in such medical issues.  I figure the very least I can do to honor his memory and his efforts on my behalf is to follow up on any leads to the discovery in Boliva or Dr. Corazon-Olivera.  If you had anything to do with this, I ask that you please help me.

On the other hand if your business with Dr. Trudeau was related to some other matter and you were still in need of medical advice or assistance, I would be willing to fill in for Silvain as I'm sure that's what he would want."

There was a long pause on the line, and Misha could hear more roaring and swooshing, and men's voices shouting in an echoey way.  "Silvain asked me if I was going anywhere near Bolivia,"  "Harry Smith" said eventually, apparently unimpressed with Misha's tone or social standing. "Since I owe Silvain, and he had mentioned your name, I will allow the debt to transfer to you, that it shall be repaid.  Plus, it is always wise to have a surgeon around.  In three day's time I will be leaving Paris.  If you wish to go, I will carry you to South America."

Misha got the feeling that whatever Harry Smith might be, he was a man of honour.

Misha replied in a somewhat relieved tone and said, "Herr Smith, I do thank you for your information and your assistance.  I will arrange to get an extended leave of absence from the hospital.  As the medical discovery in Boliva was the last thing Silvain talked to me about and as he went so far out of his way to pursue this on my behalf, I too feel honor bound to see this through.  I had not realized that he was planning to travel to Boliva but I suppose that was the logical next step.

Herr Smith, might I ask you if Silvain had mentioned any specifics regarding why he wanted to go to Boliva or what exactly he mentioned about me in particular?  Also Herr Smith, by what means are you planning on travelling to Boliva and from what location will you be departing?  Furthermore, as this will be my first trip to South America, could you tell me what preparations I should make for the journey?  If you need to contact me, please feel free to call the Paris Hospital and direct the switchboard operator to forward the call to my office.  Once again I thank you for your help in putting these puzzle peices together... I hope that we may both succeed in honoring our debts to Dr. Trudeau."

Harry Smith also seemed to pick his words carefully, and use them sparingly.  "Silvain mentioned you.  His plans, he never told them all to me."  he stated.  "I will tell you more when you are here.   It is the Airship, der Zeppelin Hexe that is my ship.  Bring what a traveller should bring.  Quinine, you can buy there."

It was some paperwork, and talking to administrators, but Misha was able to wrangle three months away from the hospital.  He spent a busy three days transferring his patients to other doctors for the interim, and getting his luggage together.  All that remained was a trip to the airfield north of Paris, looking for a German Zeppelin.

It was black, it was big, and it looked deadly as the hound of hell, and he could hear German being spoken among the uniformed crew.

Misha carried his luggage with him as he walked cautiously towards the airship.  He noted the German accents and worked hard to keep his emotions from showing on his face... if it had not been for the Germans, the "dirty Reds" would never have overthrown the Czar!

As he approached the crew, he said {in French}, "Pardon monsieurs, could you please direct me to Herr Harold Smith whom I believe owns and possibly captains this Zeppelin?  My name is Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich and Herr Smith is expecting me."

Misha met with puzzled gazes, then one man spoke in atrocious French.
"Captain is bridge,"  he said. "You wait,"  And he spoke in German, sending
one of the men running off into the airship.
The walkway to the airship swayed gently in the rising wind, and the men on
the ground suddenly got more busy.  It caught at the long black leather coat
of a man striding down the walkway, and the long white silk scarf at his
throat.  Misha noted the burn scars on the man's face, and the patch over the
left eye, and the sharp blue of the remaining eye.  A glint of metal shone on
the breast of his coat; The Blue Max, the highest honour of the German Ace.

"Ah...." came the rasping voice, the damage hidden under white silk. "You are
Herr Doctor Grigorevich.  You may come aboard."  He then snapped orders in
German, every inch the nobleman bossing his peasants, and they scurried
around, one man taking Misha's luggage and moving into the ship at a dead run.
Inside, as expected, the walkways were narrow, but the undercarriage was
neatly kept and clean.  "We will leave shortly,"  said 'Harry Smith'. "You
will wait in my quarters while yours is prepared."  He opened a wood-panelled
door emblazoned with a German eagle, and Misha was ushered into a cabin that
offered the luxury of a featherbed, a wardrobe of superior workmanship, a
desk, and a splendid view of the sky.  Pictures were screwed into the walls,
but one wall caught his eye.  Swords were lined up on it in brackets, and a
selection of firearm weaponry, including a pair of silver-chased Nagants and a
Thompson sub-machine gun, were there, all in easy reach.  Misha turned back to
Harry Smith, but all he saw was the door closing; he had not heard the man
move.

Well this is going to be an interesting diversion... at least Herr Capitan is well prepared for "trouble".  Although I don't know whether I should take solace in that fact or be more concerned that he feels such preparation is needed.  I wonder where he earned his commendation... could we have clashed at some point during the War in the Skies... I wonder?

In an effort to better understand the man he had aligned himself with, Misha began to study the pictures and personal items in the Captain's quarters.  He was careful not to disturb or move anything... in fact he made a point not to touch anything as Herr Smith gave Misha the impression of someone who would know if anything had been tampered with.  However Misha did take in the pictures in an effort to determine what Herr Smith held dear and what his past might be.

The swords and pistols were a curiousity to Misha as he had been taught to use both during his childhood as a proper Russian aristocrat should.  Of course that training had not saved his beloved Motherland from the Communist infestation in the end.  Still Misha could appreciate fine craftsmanship as he thought back to his own personal weapons given to him as a boy by his father.

The pictures featured a grand array of locations and people.  In one, by an Albatros, were four men, two officers and two ground crew.  The tallest man was beyond a doubt Harry Smith, before whatever had happened to him.  Another picture featured Rudolph Valentino, and was signed "to Harry".  Another showed a group picture of a bunch of teenagers in rugged clothing and carrying tools, that suggested archaeology or treasure hunting.  Another picture was one of Silvain Trudeau, smiling his cheerful smile and reclining on a bed.  The carved bedstead was familiar, and a quick check showed that the bed in this stateroom was the bed in the photo. Another showed a castle on fire, the flames silhouetting the masonry eerily. Most of the rest were war photos.

The weapons were another study; a lot of the swords seemed to be trophies, to judge from the inscriptions on the fancywork. One in particular had a worn leather belt and harness, and was a sabre of German make, and was the only one that seemed out of place.  The firearms were all well-oiled and apparently loaded, though every single one had the first chamber empty.  Discharging a firearm on an airship was dangerous, after all.  Two small brackets were also empty.

As Misha looked, the ship jolted and there was a deep thrumming sound, that rose to a steady roar of mighty engines.  The ship shifted under his feet, and then he heard a series of shouts, counting in German.  As the count reached ten, the room was tilting in what must be 'up', and then he could tell that the airship was launched, from the swaying feel underfoot.  The porthole showed sky...and the ground getting further and further away.

As Misha braced himself from the sudden liftoff, he considered what he had found.

Hmm "Pfalzgraf Heinrich Manfred von Schlacht"... would this be another way of saying "Henry Smith" I wonder?  It seems von Schlacht has put his finances towards his love of flying... and he seems to have the skill to justify such an investment.  I wonder how Silvain knew von Schlacht... and just "how well" he knew this German?

I never did ask Silvain what he did during the War, I suppose I'll never find out now.  Then again, there are some things that no man wants to talk about even with friends.  But why is the Pfalzgraf... that's "Count" in german I think... why is the Count heading to South America?  What is there that would attract a man like von Schlacht... and was Silvain planning to travel with him all along?

Misha wondered about these and other thoughts as he waited for the Captain to return to his cabin.  If there was one thing Misha had learned about Germans, they were sticklers for people following orders and directions... while on this airship, Misha had no intention of getting on the Count's "bad side".  Once at cruising altitude, the ground could be a very long way down.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:53, Sun 09 Jan 2005.

Misha did not have long to wait.  A black man in a neat grey jumpsuit knocked
once and opened the door, and spoke in flawless French. "Good day to you sir;
your stateroom is prepared.  Please follow me."

He led Misha down the corridor, turned down a short corridor, and opened a
narrow wood-panelled door.  Inside was a regular bed, puffy with down
blankets and featherbed, a mahoghany dresser, a small desk and chair - the
chair on runners set into the floor.  Sunlight lit up the room from the
porthole, and Misha's luggage was tied down to the floor by straps near it.
All the furniture was otherwise bolted to the floor.

"Dinner is at 7, Doctor.  You are allowed anywhere on the ship, but Captain
Smith requests you do not disturb the crew.  If there is anything you wish at
this time, I will be happy to see to it.  If you require service at another
time, that bell-pull on the wall by the bed will summon me. My name is
Hercule."

Misha is impressed with the accomdations and he takes a moment to orient himself.  He then turns to look at Hercule and says in a friendly tone, "Well I suppose the first question would be whether these rooms have their own locks and, if so, will I be provided with a key?

On a different note, would you be available now to perhaps escort me on a cursory "guided tour" of this airship?  I have never seen one before... well... from this perspective at least.

Also perhaps while we tour the airship, you could inform me a bit more about the Captain and crew as well as the notable specifics about this vessel... for instance what is the name of this airship?

Lastly I suppose I had best see what medical facilities and supplies you have on board, just in case my services are needed on route to our destination.  Would all of this be possible to arrange, I am sorry for making so many requests on such short notice."

Situational Awareness... the key my fight instructor and later my squadron commander always stressed.  No matter what the circumstances... one could not make intelligent choices without "situational awareness" and the first step to that was acclimating oneself to a new environment.  I wonder if I'll need to dress formally for dinner... it would probably be safe to assume so considering the natural formality of the Prussian aristocracy.

"There are no locks, Doctor,"  Hercule replied politely, and patiently.  "If you would like, I will show you the airship.  Her name is 'The Witch', Hexe, in German.  There is a small sickbay, and we have a man who was a good field medic."

He led Misha along the corridor.  "Most of the cabins are the crew's,and you have seen Captain Smith's stateroom,"  he said.  "Below is the engine room and steering, and below that, cargo.  Above us is the bridge, and the dining room, and the sickbay."  Hercule led the way to a small flight of steps, and went upwards.  Another corridor opened up as they arrived on the next floor, this one populated with two men in flightsuits, putting on fur-lined boots that looked much like the pair Misha had to fly in, years ago.  They glanced at Misha with some curiousity but asked no questions.  Hercule walked silently past them, and opened a door that was dressed in gold leaf, to show a dining room - small, but appointed with an embroidered linen tablecloth and a crystal chandelier. "The dining room,"  he said.  "The sickbay is this way."

He led onwards, to another room, where the universal sign of a red cross was on the door.  Inside was a single table and many glass-fronted cases, with a wide range of items; it looked clean and well-stocked.

"The bridge,"  Hercule announced.  Inside were four people, two seated at consoles, one at a heavy multiple-machine gun, and Harry Smith, standing at an ornate wooden Captain's Wheel.  An odd way to steer an airship, but it seemed to fit.  The bridge was mostly glass, and Misha had a fantastic view of the coastline and the ocean, far below.

The two men at the consoles had the look of hard-bitten veterans.  The one at the machine gun was a black woman, wearing trousers and boots like a man, her shirt straining to contain her bosom.  She flicked a desultory glance at Misha and Hercule, and went back to staring at the sky.  Harry Smith looked back briefly, nodded a greeting to Misha, and returned his gaze to the sky in front of him.

As Capt. Smith turned to acknowledge them, Misha's old well-bred instincts kicked in as he snapped to attention.  With a slight click of his heels, Misha bowed his head towards the Captain as he said in a respectful tone, "Greetings Captain, I do hope we are not disturbing you.  With Monsieur Hercule's gracious guidance, I have been familiarizing myself with the Hexe.  It is a magnificent airship.  Sir, do you have any instructions for me before dinner?"

So this vessel is well armed on the outside as well as on the inside, good ol' fashioned Prussian preparedness... or a foreboding foreshadowing of expected trouble to come?

"You are not employed, Herr Doctor, you are a guest,"  Harry Smith responded, looking back from the cloud-filled skies he was navigating through.  "Though I do ask if the siren sounds, that you go to your quarters and remain there."  The black woman's gaze shifted from Harry, to Misha, and back again, and then she raised an eyebrow at Misha.

The two other men at the consoles seemed content to look at consoles. Then something odd happened; there was a glimpse of another airship, through a thin patch of the clouds.  Immediately everyone perked up, and Harry Smith spun the wheel, apparently steering for the other airship.

With a wary glance out the window in the direction of the second airship before returning his gaze to Smith, Misha said with a sigh and a note of caution in his tone, "I appreciate the clarification on my position here Captain as I was uncertain of my current status aboard the Hexe.  Might I ask if now is going to be one of those times when the siren rings... signifying that I should return to my cabin?  Might I also ask... was Silvain ever aboard during a time when the siren rang?"

What have I gotten myself into!?  Why do I get the very uneasy feeling that this vessel's voyage will not be a simple, direct passage?  Just what is it that Capt. Smith does with his airship... to the extent that he requires such extensive armaments?  Why do I get a bad feeling about this sudden change in course heading directly at this other airship... can I possible have fallen in with.. well... for lack of a better term, "air pirates"?

Harry Smith laughed then, the raspy ruin of a laugh.  "Silvain hated it, but yes, Herr Doctor, he was aboard.  I will not appreciate you getting in the way of my crew, so if you stay in your cabin, that will be best.  Do you see that little zeppelin ?  Well, we are going to catch up to it, and we are going to rob it."
"Yo ho ho,"  the black woman said, with an amused cackle.
Hercule, at Misha's side, was looking somewhat nervous. The man at the left console said something in German, and Harry Smith tended to the wheel, catching up to the zeppelin with amazing speed.

The siren then sounded, prompting Hercule to shoo Misha along to his quarters.  Men were shouting in German, and he heard the rat-tat-tat of the machine guns.  Outside his window, he could see the swell of the targeted airship, and men on ropes fearlessly swinging toward it.  They were over the ocean now, he noted through a patch of cloud. The smaller airship was pulled alongside the Hexe, and Misha saw Harry Smith, coat flaring in the wind, sword in hand, swinging across to the undercarriage of the other zeppelin, in the company of a dozen other men. A bullet pinged off the wall near his cabin, with a few more exchanged out of sight, but it was over swiftly.

He saw Harry Smith swinging back to the Hexe, a girl of about fifteen clutched under one arm, with her fighting fiercely to get free - never mind the drop to the sea below.  Other men, carrying bundles and crates, were also returning to the Hexe.  The crippled airship was cut loose and veered off, clearly in bad shape.