"Got my flyin' papers, Sir! Payload shall be selected with abandon and strewn about the landing zone without care. In this case, collateral damage is the name of the game!" hollers the Fokker pilot. He strolls off whistling a rambling tune, puffing on his pipe, and drinking from a bottle of stout. Before he walks through the door, he turns around, winks, and says "see ya in the air!" He then exits into the nighttime shadows, shuffling through the door with a salty swagger and a knowing smirk. As his trail of smoke lingers, the others in the room begin to wonder about the level of sanity left in the lanky guy's brain pan. They weren't sure if he had much to start with, but at least he is another pilot willing to risk it all by flying through any weather to deliver surprise devastation. Yet there is still an uneasiness about the rest of the squadron, wondering what crazy schemes might be knocking about in that half-empty skull....