<strong>~Meanwhile~</strong><br/><br/>Mortensen's office in Chicago was a classy place; dark wood paneling, adjustable blinds instead of curtains, luxurious leather seats, a small open bar with a dozen varieties of alcohol, including vodka imported from Leningrad, and a large wooden desk that looked like it wouldn't be out of place on a warship of some sort.<br/><br/>Mister Mortensen, as he preferred to be called, was sitting in his favourite chair, neatly clipping the tip of a cigar before lighting the tobacco. Outside his office, a man that looked like he'd seen the wrong end of an iron pipe stood casually, his size and ill-fitting business suit defining him as a bodyguard for the businessman, as well as for the guest that sat in one of the businessman's plush seats. Taking a long puff from his cigar, he tapped a telegram he had recieved earlier in the day. "So, Lamarr survived that little adventure."<br/><br/>The guest in the seat wore dark clothes and blended into the dark setting of the office suspiciously well. A long black coat and dark boots. The hat the character was usually wearing laid in its lap, a hand folded around it as if guarding the hat. This was a good contractor. A very nice aircraft and a generous pay. Oh yes, Mortensen's guest was happy about the offer so far. No direct orders had been given though but the guest wouldn't have travelled this far if that would be a problem.<br/><br/>Any pilot or pirate would love to fly the Firebrand and this guest was no exception. In the initial contact, Mortensen had explained about his troubles with Hedy Lamarr and after some research in Haven, the guest had found out some interesting things about Lamarr and her zeppelin, the Blue Ridge.<br/><br/>Mortensen stood up, walked over to the bar, and poured two shot glasses of Vodka. "If I recall, you seal an agreement with a drink, yes?"<br/><br/>Returning to his desk, he placed both shot glasses between the two. "One Firebrand, full load of fuel, full load of ammo, Fourteen flak rockets, and Five thousand dollars for maintenance and supplies. All you have to do is harass the Blue Ridge any way you see fit. If you have extra information, Telegraph it to me; I'll send a response within a day."<br/><br/>Picking up one of the shot glasses, he looked at the pilot. "So, what do you say?"<br/><br/>The pilot repeated the offer quietly and then nodded and leaned forward, not letting go of the hat and took the glass. "Agreed."<br/><br/>The glass was raised and downed in one big gulp after which the alcohol was swirled around the mouth to give that burning sensation even in the hardest to reach places before being swallowed. "How about clearances? Which name do I use?"<br/><br/>The businessman shrugged, knocking back his shot of vodka with the ease of a lifetime of drinking strong liquor. "Considering your most noticeable personal item, perhaps 'Red Hat'."<br/><br/>He paused, then smiled. "Now, as a suggestion. The Crop Dusters they call air militia in the People's Collective are crap, the pilots are rabble, but they're passionate; tell a few about a new pirate gang, and you can easily round up a half-dozen goons to act as bullet shields for you."<br/><br/>The pilot for hire smiled at Mortensen. "It's not what I mean. A pitchblack Firebrand, flying solo, will raise questions. What if people ask questions? I need more money to bribe clerks and airstrip employees. For my safety and for the plane's."<br/><br/>The red hat shifted in it's seat. More money always had to be tried and given the right excuse, anything could be bend towards someones favor. "Same offer. Ten thousand dollars in cash."<br/><br/>Mortensen frowned a moment, gritting his teeth against the Cigar, before nodding. "Done. Send me a Telegram when you geat near where the Ridge was last seen."<br/><br/>Leaning back in his seat, he took another slow puff from his cigar, content to wait for results from his newest employee.