You were dreaming of green grass, free booze, and pretty girls when you woke up. Someone had kicked your cot and whispered a command. It was 0200 and there was a raid.

Uniform, boots, body armor, web gear, and weapon. Check the watch with its pale green glow. Off through the gravel. A briefing, a map, a plan of attack, and a last minute reminder of the ROE. Up the ramp into the rumbling track. Heat and dust and darkness as you vibrate across the desert.

The compression of rapid fire concussions from the cannon. The jiffy pop sound of a muffled machine gun rattling 7.62mm death downrange. The metal scraping noise of the turret shield door opening. A wide-eyed gunner looking down at your team as he yells “ACTION RIGHT!”

The latch on the ramp clicks before the hydraulics lower it into the dusty ground. Legs pump, commands are yelled, and bright green tracers zip through the squad.

A soldier drops. His neck and face gush blood as panicked fingers try to staunch the flow. Relief that it was him and not you.