When Sam had gotten his orders, he went to where his suit was berthed, and rubbed his head, which was aching.<br/><br/>"If I ever get invited to share a bottle of 'scotch', again, kick me."  Sam said, to his crew chief.  The previous day, after his trip to the bar, a cute little data clerk had offered to share a bottle with him, but it wasn't what he'd considered Scotch.  It more resembled alcoholic battery acid, and hit packed a huge whollop.<br/><br/>"Will do, sir."  The chief replied, grinning.  "You've got some extra toys available to you.  What do you want?"<br/><br/>Sam took a look at the list of offerings, and considered his choices, carefully.<br/><br/>"Give me the missile six-pack."  Sam said, after long thought.  "And make sure those beam-rider seeker heads are tuned to my suit's sensors.  LAst time I tried one, they went all over the place."<br/><br/>Sam was referring to his time in orbit, when his GM was given a bulky six-pack of missiles to lug along on an intercept mission.  His group, all three o them, were sent to take on a Zeon battlewagon, with each suit carrying one of the heavy launchers.  What should've been an easy in-and-out turned oout to be nearly a massacre.  The seeker heads on the missiles, designed to follow his suit's own sensor lock, weren't tuned, correctly, and neither were the missiles of his two compatriots.  All eighteen of the missiles flew off, randomly, and it was only by the saving grace of a rapid-intercept group of fighters that the team was able to retreat.<br/><br/>"You got it, sir."  The crew chief replied, making the proper marks on the checklist.