Act of War.

The British are coming.

Over in Bristol, England, arrangements were being made to send over two investigators to discover what exactly happened and why.  The first thing to do, though, was to figure out which two to send. Looking over reports, the agency involved decided that Paul Miller was one man to use.

Paul was 31, a tall, dark haired man who got along well with everyone, especially the ladies, because of his genuine smile and kindness towards others. He'd been an investigator since he was 17, beginning as an apprentice and moving his way up the chain. He was knowledgeable on mechanical things, including flying machines of many types, and could make most anything work as long as it had fuel in it.

His eyes were always able to catch what others had missed, his logic often surpassed others and was the basis for his hunches that more often than not turned out to be correct. He was lean and was definitely a man you didn't want to mess with. But mostly, people found that out way to late. Having studied a few self defense and fighting techniques, he combined aspects of them all and made his own style that allowed him to go up against skilled and much larger opponents. Mostly, though, his opponents were only younger detectives hoping to beat him. Always, it seemed, they were so full of themselves.

It was decided he was all they needed to send over. After all, it's just a trip over to Ireland so he could gather evidence and begin to fit the pieces of the mystery together. There'd not be a need for a partner, no danger save for possibly a mechanical failure in his trip there. Of course, he'd probably magically fix that too.

Having decided Paul was their man, they arranged a flight over to Waterville in a sea plane. Their craft of choice was a retired Royal Air-force Fairey Seal float plane. The craft was the earliest available flight and would detour past its destination to drop him off. Currently, it was being used as a transport of cargo and one or two passengers. Soon it would be dismantled and scrapped.

The 33 foot plane had a 45 foot wingspan and could reach nearly 140 mph because of its Armstrong Siddeley Panther IIA radial piston engine. To increase range, the place where bombs would once have been was converted to extra  fuel, extending its flight time from less than five hours to more than eight. The guns, too, had been taken from it.

The next day it took off from its floating docking station with Paul and two crew on-board. Only two seats were still in it, the second man in it offered him his seat but Paul declined and sat with his back against a large crate that shuddered with the plane in turbulence and made what ever was in it clang together.

"So why are you going over?" yelled the co-pilot over the roar of the engine. The plane had an enclosed cockpit now, as another modification, so his words weren't blown away on the wind.

"Investigation." he replied, loudly.

"What kind, might I ask?"

"You hear about the Gruenewald disaster?"

"The what?"

Guess not. "It was an airship, it's been in the papers. Blown out of the sky less than a week ago." he called out.

"Oh, ok. I'll have to grab a paper sometime, then. Ne'er heard a word of it." he yelled back.

Turbulence, Paul held himself down by placing his hand atop the crate. The other man turned around and looked out into the distance. Ireland was appearing as an emerald in the sapphire ocean.

About an hour later, a bit more, the craft skimmed along the waterway of the channel in Waterville and came to a stop expertly next to a floating dock. The mooring lines were cast out and soon the shore-men had them secured and Paul was able to step out. Thanking them kindly, he tipped them enough to pay to refuel completely and a little bit extra.

Walking about the town, he found his way to where he needed to go. Soon, he was shaking hands with Constable Henry.

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