I am definitely outside my comfort zone today.
A few miles west of the Las Vegas Strip, I'm standing inside a darkened, cavernous war zone, with lights flashing and music blaring, along with the sounds of explosives. This middle-aged female journalist is running around in military-style camouflage, with a protective vest and helmet, while lugging along an air soft rifle with extra magazines.
I can't see because my goggles keep fogging up. The shoulder sling for my rifle is too long for my 5-foot-5 frame, and I'm afraid I'm going to trip over my weapon. I also put on my vest backward. "You will be mocked for that," said one of my squad leaders, a man named Wombat.