You wipe the sweat from your brow with your unauthorized Oakley glove as the sun beats down on you through the soupy Iraqi haze. Sandstorm's coming, your mission will likely be canceled but your guys prep the truck anyway. Your load plan is immaculate, if you roll the only thing hitting someone in the head is a dusty can of Wild Tiger. Your PSG calls all of the TC's over to let you know that the 60 mortar guys are rolling with you, last minute frago from the Commander. 'CO wants extra rounds with those guys, so we need cross-load the extra crates'. You tell him your vic is full-up, same thing for all the other trucks. The PSG walks over to your new 'came here mid-deployment from West Point by way of Ranger School' cherry lieutenant to brief him on the situation, and before you can even comment to your wing-man about LT's sweet new mag-pulls you hear the hummingbird-like flutter of tiny wings at 1,000 bpm as they carry the friggin' Good Idea Fairy straight to the lieutenants ear. 'BOHICA' you tell your boy, 'grab the lube'. The Fairy whispers something, waves her wand and cracks LT across the back of the Kevlar with it. Without hesitation the LT lights up, yelling his instructions: 'Listen up! each truck needs to take a crate of mortars. Use ratchet straps to secure them to the front bumper between your fuel cans, and tie them down tight, we don't need these things falling off.' 'Do whaa?' you mumble to your buddy, but it's too late. The Fairy strikes again. Pucker-up buttercup, it's time to set sail.