The horde of helicopters came in hard and fast enough that Finch thought they would end up as a smear on the ground, but it appeared that the pilots were absolute masters of their craft. Everyone inside the helicopters felt as if the meal they had just eaten lurched in their stomachs. The behemoth vehicle nearly went vertical as the pilot yanked violently on his stick, slowing the King Stallion down before setting the mighty beast down gently.

  All around the clearing, the other massive transports — Marine Kings Stallions and the Army’s Chinooks — were doing the same and settling into the surprisingly large clearing. The air was a maelstrom of rotor wash, dirt, and debris of alien foliage as ramps lowered and Marines poured out. True to the crew chief’s orders, Finch instinctively veered hard left off the ramp, hot on the heels of Sergeant Reyes, the moment the crew chief swiveled his gun out of the way.

  Ahead, Reyes was already a blur of motion, moving aggressively toward his zone of fire at the designated treeline to the west of their bird. Finch thumped after him, covering about twenty meters in just a few seconds, even with his heavy 90-pound rucksack on his back.

  Without a word, both Finch and Reyes took a knee, swiveling and scanning the treeline for any sign of movement or magical bullshit with their M27s resting snugly against their shoulders. Knowing that friendlies were in the area, the two Marines ensured their weapons were oriented toward the west as they searched for any flicker of movement or an unnatural shape.

  As the two men covered their sectors, a flurry of activity was underway behind them. Marines scurried like ants, unloading ammo cans, water jugs, radios, and squad-level gear, until the roar of the departing King Stallion echoed through the clearing, and it took off. Aware of their exposure, NCOs shouted directions as Marines fanned out, rapidly expanding the perimeter. But just as Finch was starting to feel a sliver of control, movement flashed in his peripheral vision, causing him to snap toward it.

  "Son of a—" he cursed under his breath as he registered the MARPAT camo and physically wrenched his M27 downwards to avoid flagging them.

  Three Marines bounded toward the treeline directly in front of several established fields of fire, completely oblivious to everyone around them. From the looks of it, these three idiots appeared to be part of First Platoon, who must have landed on a different bird, considering the rest of the idiots were bounding across Finch’s and Rey’s front.

  This was how blue-on-blue happened.

  Finch clicked his tongue and grabbed his push-to-talk as he watched them disappear into the reddish-green foliage and keyed to the squad-wide network. "We got assholes from first or third platoon just running into the trees without comms."

  Staff Sergeant Michaels’ voice crackled back instantly, laced with his usual weary cynicism. "Yeah, no shit. We got more of them bounding across.” He replied with exasperation. “You know how it is; these multi-platoon air assaults are always a clusterfuck for the first ten minutes, so watch your sectors of fire and don’t shoot your goddamn buddies. Over.”

  The moment Michaels’ voice cut out, a torrent of rotor wash whipped nearly everything around as the King Stallion lifted into the air. Both Finch and Reyes squinted their eyes and lowered their heads to prevent debris from damaging their eyes when another figure came scrambling over. With his head hung low and his back hunched over, Newman skidded to a halt beside Finch and Reyes, dropping to a knee with a grunt as his own M27 rested against his chest.

  “My only battle buddy is you, baby.” ‘Senior Private First Class’ Newman gave Finch’s ass a quick, light slap.

  Finch glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his own lips. “Hell ya, bro,” he replied, reaching out a gloved fist.

  Newman bumped it enthusiastically as they reinforced their bond forged from terminal lance Corporaltivity could create, or in Newman’s case, Terminal Senior Privativity. “Hey, you wanna shower together when this all over?” Newman leaned in and spoke loudly with a shit-eating grin.

  The Private’s voice barely resounded over the diminishing roar of the departing helicopters when Finch snorted. It was one of many absurd jokes the men of second platoon shared whenever boredom really set in. “Fuck yeah, dude. We’ll share a stall.”

  Sergeant Reyes, who had been diligently scanning his sector, did his best to ignore the less intelligent half of his fire team and simply let out a sigh. Yet, even then, the Sergeant couldn’t help but smirk whenever these idiots occasionally followed through and committed to their jokes as he slowly rolled his eyes.

  Just then, Staff Sergeant Michaels’ voice cut through the net again, sharp and direct. "Propane 2, this is Propane 2-3. We're consolidating on rally point Echo. Watch your fire.” He ordered while waving the rest of his squad to follow suit.

  Reyes didn't hesitate and pushed himself up. "Alright, you two lovebirds," he grunted, giving Finch and Newman a pointed look. "Come on, let's go be homoerotic this way." He jerked his head towards the designated rally point further into the treeline.

  As Reyes got to his feet, his gaze swept over their small section of the rapidly forming perimeter and landed on a lone Marine still prone, diligently watching his sector a bit further down. The new guy, Pham, a darker-skinned Vietnamese-American, was still far greener than the alien grass he was laying in.

  "PHAM!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of the second wave of helicopters now descending into the LZ. "The fuck you doin’?! Come on!"

  Pham basically jumped 5 feet in the air at the sudden shout and did a comical double-take. After a few moments, the realization dawned on the Private, and he scrambled to his feet. "Sorry, Sarge!" he yelled back, against the rotor-wash of a fresh batch of helicopters coming in to land and double-timed it over to join his fireteam.

  The four of them began to jog in a loose tactical formation towards the eerie, reddish-green treeline, past other squads that were moving to their own rally points. As the group moved through the clearing, Finch found that the ground was unnervingly flat… It was blatantly artificial considering just how smooth it was, especially compared to the glimpses Finch had caught of the surrounding forest during their descent.

  Hell, the tree trunks gnarled and twisted the ground, elevating patches of earth into a chaotic mess of roots, alien undergrowth, and uneven terrain. It was so extreme that Finch couldn’t help but wonder how the hell this LZ is so goddamn level? It seemed as if someone had come through with a goddamn Zamboni and deliberately carved an unnatural scar into the landscape.

  Just as they were about fifty meters from the edge of the LZ, a rough, hoarse voice, amplified by hate and vitriol, erupted from deeper within the foliage ahead of them. "HEY, HEY, HEY! YOU DUMB FUCKS! MAKE SURE YOU CHECK YOUR FIRE AND DON'T SHOOT OUR GUYS! THERE'S STILL RAIDERS AND SEALS OUT THERE!"

  Heeding the warning that wasn’t intended for them, Finch and the rest of the fireteam instinctively slowed their jog to a more cautious, creeping advance. Reyes took point as the rest of his subordinates slowly spread out, bringing their rifles to the low-ready position to ensure they wouldn’t accidentally shoot any friendly forces. The last thing they wanted was to aim their weapon at some secret squirrel and have their asses handed to them by an old soul who sounded like he’d been gargling gravel and moonshine.

  As Finch peered into the dense, strangely hued forest, his heart thumped a bit faster. Sure, this area was supposedly ‘secure,’ but the warning the Crew Chief gave them on the way in spooked him, especially after seeing the scars on their bird. However, a few moments later, the fireteam spotted Staff Sergeant Michaels further ahead, coming to a jogging stop near the edge of the trees while some figure suddenly unfused from the foliage.

  "Lieutenant Midan, but just call me Mack." The operator said in a low, calm, and professional voice as he extended a gloved hand as Michaels approached.

  Staff Sergeant Michaels shook the Navy SEAL’s hand firmly. "Staff Sergeant Michaels, Second Platoon, Charlie Company LZ's still a bit of a shitshow, but we're shaking it out."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Just as Michaels and Mack were exchanging pleasantries, Lieutenant Watts jogged over with a flushed face and eyes so wide you could feel the frayed nerves radiating off them. Close behind the tense son of a bitch was Gunnery Sergeant Martinez, who moved at a more measured pace as his eyes scanned the treeline, honing in on the newly appearing figures. It was almost like watching ghosts materialize out of goddamn nothing as more operators, similarly kitted out in the same gear as Mack, seemed to pop out of the woodwork where seconds before there had been nothing but shadows and alien plants.

  Finch’s eye twitched when he saw that. “Damn, these guys are good.” He muttered, kicking himself internally for not spotting a single one of them earlier.

  Sergeant Reyes, noticing Finch’s subtle shift in focus, leaned over and gave the Lance Corporal’s leg a light smack. "Man," Reyes muttered with a wry grin, "we'd all be dead if they were hostile?"

  Pham, who had been diligently scanning his sector, overheard Reyes snap his head around for yet another double-take. When he spotted Navy SEALs where they shouldn’t have been, the noobie’s eyes widened almost comically as he stared at the now-visible cluster of special operators. Newman, true to form, dropped to a knee again and started peering around like a startled meerkat, swatting at his pocket for that cheap infrared monocular he bought off eBay.

  "Lieutenant Watts, Platoon Leader, Second Platoon." Watt finally reached the group of SEALs, offering a slightly hesitant hand to Mack.

  Meanwhile, as Wats introduced himself, Gunnery Sergeant Martinez had already snapped around and rumbled in a low voice as he moved among the squads of Second Platoon that were still converging near the treeline. "Alright, Squad Leaders, get me a count. Make sure all your fuckin’ guys are here! Two, check your sensitive items! Three, LACE reports, go!" The Gunny was a whirlwind of controlled energy, ensuring every Marine was accounted for and ready as his subordinate NCOs barked their acknowledgments before relaying information down the chain.

  "Sir…” Watts spoke, knowing that Mack was a higher rank than he due to the Navy’s unique structure, “I've already been briefed on the overall objective…” he said hesitantly while looking at his battle board that had a rough map inserted into it, attached to his inner arm. “We're to patrol through this forest and assault and flank an enemy HQ to fix their forces… But given our uhh… energetic arrival, do you think we'll actually be creeping up on this bunker undetected?"

  Mack let out a short, humorless scoff. "Fuck no, Lieutenant. They might not have known we were here before those birds came in, but they sure as shit know now. Every goddamn rotor wing for fifty klicks is probably lighting up their equivalent of radar." He glanced down at his watch, which had its face turned inward on his wrist, then tapped it. "We're on a timer. We gotta go fast. The longer we wait, the more time they have to react and reinforce."

  Watts audibly gulped at the blunt assessment and glanced almost instinctively towards Gunnery Sergeant Martinez, who, having completed his rapid consolidation, gave a curt nod. "Platoon's fully accounted for, Lieutenant. We’re green."

  Taking a shallow breath, Watts nodded as a newfound resolve hardened on his expression, fussed with his radio to switch to the correct channel, and keyed his push-to-talk. "Propane Actual, this is Propane Two. We've hit Point of Contact with 'Pathfinder' element. Platoon is green and ready to move. Over."

  The moment he turned up the volume, a flurry of clipped radio traffic crackled back as the Company Radio Telephone Operator (RTO) confirmed the receipt and issuing of several brief updated Fragmentary Orders from the litany of platoons. "Propane Two, this is Actual. Solid copy. FRAGO as follows: Phase Line OSCAR is now active. Your platoon will advance as lead element for Charlie Company, integrated with Pathfinder. Priority is to identify and neutralize enemy observation posts along Axis Serpent before they set up proper defenses. Out."

  A flurry of clipped radio traffic immediately crackled back, confirming receipt and issuing a brief, updated Fragmentary Order from the Company Commander, based on the real-time situation. "Propane Two, this is Actual. Roger, good copy. FRAGO follows: Phase Line Green is now active. Your platoon will advance as the lead element for Charlie Company, integrated with Pathfinder. The priority is to identify and bypass or neutralize enemy observation posts along Axis Serpent. Maintain stealth and report all enemy activity. Time is critical; they'll be setting up proper defenses as we speak. Execute. Out."

  Finch’s eye twitched again when he listened in on the transmission. This was it. No more waiting. They were getting into the shit.

  As a matter of fact, the entire platoon seemed to teem with electric glee when the Lieutenant turned to his squad leaders, who were gathered around him and the Gunny.

  "Alright, listen up!" Watts’ voice gained confidence as he relayed the FRAGO, "Commander's Intent remains: We are to push through this forest, find that enemy HQ, and engage in order to fix them in place so Army armor can roll. My intent for this initial phase: We move fast and then patrol to contact with the SEALs at their hide site or the first designated rally point without getting compromised to support follow-on forces for the initial assault on Objective…” The Platoon leader looked back at his battle board to ensure he was getting his call-outs right. “The initial assault on Objective Baker!"

  He then paused, taking a quick look at his map overlay. "Enemy’s situation has been updated! Pathfinder confirms that the enemy is aware of our general presence. Expect roving patrols, possible OPs along dominant terrain, or the beginnings of fortifications! They're likely jumpy and will react aggressively to contact, so when you engage, you hit them hard!"

  "Scheme of Maneuver," the Gunny interjected smoothly. "2-3, you're with me and the LT; you're lead. We'll be integrated with Lieutenant Midan’s team. We push point. Formation will be a platoon column, squad file, 15-yard dispersion. 2-2, you're our primary support by fire element, centered on the 240s and MAAWS. 2-1, you've got trail and rear security, but be advised: our pace will be aggressive.” The Gunny pointed at each of the Squad Leaders. “If we hit something we can't handle, we break contact, report, and reassess. Do not be decisively engaged without orders.

  Watts picked it up again. "Coordinating Instructions: Initial Rally Point is…” The lieutenant paused once more, squinting at his map. “Checkpoint Alpha-One, grid coordinates to follow… Right. For Grid Zone Designator Alpha-One, Two Bravo, Alpha Papa, One-One-Four-Seven. I repeat, Grid Zone Designator Two Bravo, Alpha Papa, One-One-Four-Seven." Watts then looked at his men. “If separated, make your way there. Comms are primary on squad net; secondary is company tac. Pathfinder will be on a separate net but will coordinate through me or Gunny."

  Looking around, the Lieutenant noticed that everyone was locked in and focused. The banter and regular bullshitting had melted away, and in their place were eager professionals. “Actions on contact: Lead element makes contact, Support element deploys to establish a base of fire. Trail elements maneuver to support or flank as directed. Any questions?

  “Roger, that.” The Marines affirmed in unison, nodding their heads. This was what they trained for. The controlled chaos of the LZ was already fading into the focused intensity of the impending patrol as they prepared to implement their new, decentralized, and chaotic doctrine.

  Finch watched as everyone around him seemed to step it up a notch. "Alright, Third Squad, you heard the man! We're the lead element! Reyes, you and your fireteam are with me! Double-check your weapons and gear!" Staff Sergeant Michaels had already turned and started barking orders at their squad.

  The whole scene felt almost surreal to Finch… Almost like a fever dream. He’d spent so much of his enlistment getting blue-balled in endless training ops, deployments to the South China Sea that amounted to floating boat guard, or posturing in the Middle East that he couldn’t even fathom that he’d finally pop his cherry. Never in his wildest, most crayon- and alcohol-fueled fantasies did he think he'd be part of a combat deployment to another goddamn world. It was as if Saint Chesty Puller and Saint Mattis themselves had descended from on high, looked down upon the sorry state of the peacetime Corps, and personally blessed them with this glorious and insane opportunity.

  A sharp smack to the back of his Kevlar suddenly snapped Finch out of his reverie. "You with us, Finch, or you still daydreaming about the Gunny?" Reyes grunted, already standing to his feet and checking that his Night Optical Device (NODs) had batteries and weren’t all jacked up.

  Scrambling to his feet, Finch did the same and rushed to double-check his weapons and gear. But out of the corner of his eye, Finch noticed the butter bar was heaving heavily with a pale face. The LT seemed to be damn near having a panic attack until he took a deep, shuddering breath and then slammed a fist into his own stomach with a guttural grunt. "Hey, you fuckin' got this," Watts muttered to himself, eyes squeezed shut for a second. He hit himself again, harder this time. "Nut the fuck up!" Then, straightening his shoulders, he bellowed, his voice cracking only slightly, "ALRIGHT, SECOND PLATOON! DROP RUCKS! ASSAULT PACKS ONLY! AMMO AND WATER, LET'S GO! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

  The heavy thuds of rucksacks almost struck the alien dirt in unison as Marines shrugged off their ninety-pound burdens. Not a moment sooner were the men of Second Platoon transitioning to the smaller, more agile assault packs, and a wave of relief was felt across each Marine. It was like shedding a lead weight, but it was soon made up as they started stuffing extra magazines and grenades into pouches or topping off Camelbaks. They knew that this was most likely going to be a very goddamn long engagement, and they needed to snag more than a regular fighting load.

  Finch dug through his rucksack, the familiar ache in his shoulders already receding as he yanked out anything and everything that might be even remotely useful for a prolonged firefight. As he tightened the straps on his assault pack, the Lance Corporal glanced through a gap in the SEALs and saw that another group of Marines, probably First Platoon, was already melding into the reddish-green thicket, deeper in the woods. It seemed everyone had their own directives on how to complete the objective as they moved with a purposeful gait toward the bunker.

  As the Marines of the 2nd Regiment, 2nd Marine Division started to file into single-file lines in order to navigate the thick forest, they all realized it was finally their turn to get some.