About

The green light hits and I step out into nothing—static line yanks me forward and the C-130 vanishes above me like it was never there. Wind roars in my ears, then the canopy snaps open and everything goes still except the rain and the distant thump of rotor wash somewhere beyond the treeline. I come down hard in the DZ cutout, boots sinking into mud, shroud lines tangling in the wet jungle air. No ceremony, just the grind of harness quick-release and the sound of men moving in the dark. I shoulder my ruck, check my M16, and push through elephant grass until I hear voices—low, controlled, Rakkasans. I follow them through the tree line and find my unit already forming up under ponchos, helmets down, waiting like they’ve been here a thousand years already.