[center][h3]LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN [color=ff4136]"COMMIE"[/color][/h3][/center]
[hr]
Panting as he ripped his flight helmet free upon the Shrike's return, Kilmer took a moment to wick away the sweat that had built up near his brows before slicking back his straight blonde hair, letting the recycled air refresh and fill the cabin, then his lungs. He sat there for a moment, letting the various aches and pains of high-g aftermath settle in across his frame— luckily, a quick patdown told him that he'd not pushed himself super hard. Some sorties, he came back spewing up a little more crimson than Vulture ever appreciated. 

Given this was a multi-phase assault, good thing he'd avoided that old bit, this time. Satisfied, he clambered out of the cockpit in short order, standing at attention as the Captain and Commander both gave their quick debriefs. He declined to comment on Sab's pushups— she was here long enough to know that Vulture never let you get away with 27 or 28 forever when he'd demanded 30. On his end, instead, he just folded his arms.

[color=ff4136]"Three hours."[/color] he chuffed with a shrug. [color=ff4136]"Just enough time to grab a Barq's and sit through my earful from the Boeing rep. I'll be helping the ground teams fine tune some stuff down here if I'm needed."[/color]

Offering the others a nod, he ambled away, intent on finding just where the hell they'd stashed his jacket.
[hr]

A hand rose.

[color=ff4136]"What air cover are we expecting to run into for the descent? Standard fare?"[/color] 

Kilmer was hardly worried about the typical flak nets, SAMs, and so forth. The book had been written on them before manned spaceflight, but there was no way the mass drop wouldn't muster heavy orbital opposition. If they were peeling away, he had an inkling that he might get his pound of flesh after all, after having missed out on the Fafnir earlier.