His breathing is already quickening. The furnace hot crew area of the Bradley is packed with dismounts, crammed in shoulder to shoulder. His uniform is soaked with salty coolant. The fighting vehicle is vibrating and rattling down the pavement. It’s rocking up and down or side to side with changing terrain like a darkened carnival ride.

“Action right!” the gunner calls down from the turret. The engine revs up, the track spins. They’re breathing heavy, gripping their weapons, staring at the ramp. The locking latch clicks free.

Hydraulics whir and the ramp drops. Dusty boots are pounding across the surface before it has finished descending. The outside air is cool for the sprint to the door. He takes his place at the number two slot.

The one-man kicks the door in. One-man moves and two-man rushes inside. Rapid pops flash in the dark, tracers ricochet off the walls, bullets shatter, the smell of cordite, screams and blood.

“CLEAR!” he yells.

More potent than any drug,
this combat junkie takes his fix.