<strong>HEINZ VON OBERAMMERGAU</strong><br/><br/>Giving Johnston a quick, meaningful nod of thanks, I wove between some shouting mechanics to grab my kit bag, rushed over to my plane hanging over the hatch and clambered into its spacious, armoured cockpit. If Lamarr wanted to have me shot in front of her client as I ran through her maintenance staff and drums of fuel, oil and ammunition, my colleagues would have to make a crash landing soon  to strip her zeppelin's smouldering carcass of copper and aluminium in lieu of payment. I wholeheartedly agreed with the Cajun lady's sentiments, but wasn't interested in discussing our iniquitous terms of employment in brothel French with her just yet, at least until the attack stopped.<br/><br/><strong>"To your defense, madam, and Major Johnston's!"</strong>I shouted, sliding my plexiglass canopy shut, and gave the launcher monkey a thumbs up as I strapped myself in and braced myself  for the drop.<br/>