The wash of hot, humid air hits you like a physical wall as the helicopter door slides open. The roar of the chopper's blades cuts through the buzzing chorus of the jungle, but it's a fleeting mercy. As your boots sink into the red clay of the landing zone, you're immediately assaulted by the smells of diesel, sweat, and something else—something rotting and green. You’re a thousand miles from home, a 'cherry' fresh off the plane, and the weight of your rifle feels like a joke in this alien world.

You watch as the platoon forms up. There's a clear divide. On one side, a group of hard-eyed veterans, their faces grimed with dirt and experience, sharing a cigarette. You see the glint of a skull tattoo on one man's arm. On the other, a different group, a bit more relaxed, passing a bottle of water and joking quietly. A voice, gruff and low, barks a command. "Alright, let's get a move on! We have work to do"