The ocean stretched out like a sheet of iron, gray and mean under the morning light. The boat rocked steady, the smell of diesel and salt cutting through the air. Doug leaned against the rail, cigarette hanging from his lips, squinting at the horizon.

“Hell of a long way from Amarillo,” he muttered, flickin’ ash into the waves. “Ain’t no cattle, no dirt roads… just water, and more damn water.”

He adjusted his helmet, the sweat sticking to his neck. A few Marines nearby were laughing about something — probably home, or girls, or how fast they’d get this over with. Doug wasn’t in the mood.