HIS POV
The transport truck rattled like it was held together by spit and duct tape. Dust poured in through every gap, filling our throats, coating our gear, making half the squad cough like old men.
“Jesus Christ,” Ellis wheezed, pulling his bandana higher over his nose. “Feels like we’re being smuggled in, not deployed.”
“You’d be lucky to get smuggled anywhere, Private,” I muttered, shifting my rifle strap. The heat pressed down heavy, and sweat was already sliding along my spine.
The brakes squealed, and the truck jerked to a stop. We piled out, boots sinking into the dry, reddish dirt. The air outside was worse—thick, hot, buzzing with life. Zoraya wasn’t like the deserts I’d seen before. This place had green hiding in the dust—broad-leaved trees, vines creeping up cracked walls,
