World of Tanks. A massively popular MMO turned reality.
Hailed as the game of champions, it's the way the modern world plays war. From the multi-national corporations to the PMC's, the world's governments, privateers and average Joes; all men and women from all walks of life, everyone has some involvement. Either for fun, for profit or for actual war, Tanks have become the main stay of the modern civilized world, and the men and woman who compete in them, the modern, civilized gladiators. Yearly, World of Tank battles occur throughout the world, almost as an Olympic sport, though not technically Olympic.
The crews themselves are actually kept safe by several key features. First off, the tanks themselves, although fully breakable, have modern composite ceramic armor, capable of stopping any shell used in the games from penetrating to the crew compartment.
Second, standard issue battle armor, given to even the newest recruit, protects from shrapnel and explosive blasts, enabling the crew to perform outside repairs, recon, or other activities outside their tank, yet still remain safe, even under fire.
Last of all is the actual combat system. High tech sensors, computers and algorithms are used in each tank to calculate if whether or not a tank is penetrated, and how much damage a tank receives. This means that essentially, each tank has a health pool, giving a certain amount of survivability to even small light tanks. But once that health pool is depleted, its candles for the tank.
But better the tank than the men and women who fight from within. Yes, civilized war, indeed.
"Contact," said Kevin.
"What is it?" asked Brett into his coffee.
"Looks like a T-34-85, aaaaaaaaaand…a KV-3."
Brett worked the traverse and elevation controls.
"I'll work on that KV-3 first."
He spent only a few seconds working the gun. He was an uncouth man, so the position of gunner suited him. He spotted the KV-3. He worked the powerful 105mm cannon into place. The cannon then fired hard, and a shell flew out of the cannon and struck the KV-3's gun mantlet.
"That's gone through! 315 damage!" shouted Kevin.
"Another one!" urged Brett.
Jack and Christopher manhandled the massive 105mm shell into the breach and closed it. It took them exactly 7.4 seconds.
"Shell loaded!" shouted Jack. The next shell exited the barrel and screeched through the air at the KV-3. The KV-3 could not yet see the T29, but it had a good idea where it was. A distant *boom* came as the shell shot through the air in the T29's direction.
*clang!*
The 122mm shell struck the frontal turret armor of the T29. The armor there was very thick. Kevin located the smoking shell on the ground next to the tank. The front had been blunted and squashed, and the shell had caved in on itself.
The T29 returned fire. Smoke and fire was belched from the muzzle brake as the shell arced through the air and struck the KV-3. The KV-3 was down to 299 HP.
Kevin heard the familiar *ca-chunk* of the breech as Chris shouted "Shell loaded!"
The gun fired yet again and hit the KV-3. The KV-3 exploded. That was one heavy tank down for the count.
"Vernon, radio the CO. That's the KV-3 down."
"Roger," replied Vernon's deep, gruff voice.
Kevin scanned the horizon for that pesky T-34-85. It seemed to have escaped.
Steve Preston was many things: tank commander, father, tank enthusiast, writer, and diabetic. He was rough-and-tumble, a home-grown farmboy from Kansas. He had the skill of Michael Wittmann, the body of Chuck Norris, and the tact of Jabba the Hutt, but his team loved him. He checked his blood as he waited for news of the enemy deployment.
"Daddy, message from Kevin!" shouted the radio woman, Antigone, Steve's daughter.
"Bring it out, Antigone," said Steve.
Antigone opened the hatch and handed Steve the message. Her blonde hair was matted down and disheveled from the close quarters of the tank and her helmet. She was Steve's youngest child and only daughter, although she was 26. She loved her dad very much, but she also was very skilled at her job.
"So, that's the KV-3 down," said Steve. He opened his flask of bourbon and took a swig. "Carl, let's move up, to, say, the 23-45 sector."
"I'm on it," said Carl.
This time, Team USA would win, not Team Russia.
Sergey Gorskin surveyed the territory through binoculars. High-powered and high-tech, they switched from infrared to electromagnetic to regular to ultraviolet at the twist of a dial. The distance was marked in the corner, thanks to a radar system within.
A loud boom came from somewhere to the west.
"Komandir!" shouted a voice from the radio. "Vitaliy here! We're taking fire from an enemy tank somewhere ahead of us, possibly T29! Orders?"
"Try to find the bastard," said Sergey.
Sergey was an irredeemably foul-mouthed navy veteran. He was gentle, but had spent almost his whole life at sea, which taught him to be rough and tough when necessary. Land ship warfare was not his strong suit, but he was the best Team Russia had after the former champion, Stepan Grischenko, retired last year. Team UK had been easy enough to defeat; Team Japan used naval tactics much like his own, but Russia eventually prevailed; but Steve Preston was not like them.
"Yuri! Get me a line to the T-50-2," shouted Sergey to the radio operator.
"Ok, got it," said Yuri.
"Yes, Komandir?" asked Mark, the T-50-2 commander.
"American tank believed to be somewhere near 56-89 sector. You know what to do," said Sergey.
"I'm on it, sir."
Yes. Team USA was playing it cunning. Again.
Mark Logorov's back bumped against his chair as his T-50-2 tank rumbled and rattled over the rocky Sicilian landscape. Shame they had to host the games in Italy this year, otherwise the tank would be much more stealthy.
"David, try to drive on the grass more," he said to the driver.
"Got it, sir," said David as he worked the controls to drive onto the grass.
The tank rolled along much more steadily. Just then, the KV-3 exploded. The minimap showed the KV-3 icon flicker out.
"This is Vitaliy! We've gone down!"
Over the radio, Sergey cursed fouly.
Just then, the minimap in the corner of the turret beeped. A red icon appeared. The caption indicated it was a T29.
"Get me a transmission to Komandir Gorskin," said Yuri.
"Hello, Komandir? It's Mark. We've found a T29, probably the one that killed Vitaliy."
"OK, thanks for the information. Await further instructions and standby."
The IS-3 was like a battleship: powerful, strong, large, proud. Sergey polished the DShK machine gun on the top of the turret compulsively. The T29 was found; should he send the T-34-85 and IS in? What if it was a trap?
"Veniamin, take us to sector 59-87. We're going after that T29. Yuri, get me a line to the central IS and T-34-85."
Kevin studied the small tank. The T-50-2 evidently didn't think the T29 could see him. He withdrew back inside the tank.
"Percy! Bring us forward, say, 22 feet."
Percy, the driver, worked the controls and sent the T29 rolling forward to the sound of thundering engines. The T-50-2 did not budge an inch. So far, so good.
"Brett, see that T-50-2? You know what to do."
A wicked grin appeared on Brett's face as he traversed the turret and aimed.
Mark saw all this.
"He sees us! He sees us! Evasive!"
David frantically pushed pedals and threw levers with remarkable speed and skill. The tank maneuvered perfectly, but it was too late.
Kevin eyed the light tank struggling to avoid the T29 turret.
"Poor sap. FIRE!"
The empty casing flew out the breech, the gun recoiled, smoke filled the turret, and the shell punched through the T-50-2's side armor. The tank went up in flames.
"Ha!" said Brett. He marked this one down in his game book, like always.
"Percy! Get us to sector 49-83. We need to get out of here before someone else comes for us," said Kevin. "Oh, and Vernon, establish radio contact with the CO."
A few seconds later, contact had been established.
"Sir! The T-50-2 is down!" said Kevin.
"Good, good!" came Steve's voice over the radio. "Fall back to the 47-80 sector please, someone has to cover that choke point."
"Roger that," said Kevin. Vernon switched off the radio. "Percy! You heard the man!"
The steel beast rumbled towards 47-80.
Back at base, Antigone sat deep in thought, while her father flipped switches.
"Antigone, can you radio the E8?"
"Yes, daddy," she said as she pressed the necessary buttons.
"Jake?" asked Steve. "It's Steve. Move behind the rocks at 54-87 and wait for them."
"Got it. All ahead. Set a course for-"The radio switched off while the M4A3E8 commander was in mid-sentence. That was good; the situation was good. The Americans were ahead 2-0. 2 down, 13 to go. Just then, the minimap indicated that the left flank had made contact. The captions indicated that the Americans had a T29, a Jumbo, and a Hellcat on that flank, defending against at least 4 tanks, mostly T-34s and models of the T-34, spearheaded by an IS. Golly.
"Steve!" shouted Marissa's voice over the radio. Marissa commanded the Hellcat on the right flank. "I think we've been spotted!"
"How is that possible? You have the invisibility Invisitank® cloaking device, right? They shouldn't be able to see you!"
"Apparently they have!" shouted Marissa. "Taking fire! We're down to 100hp! Damn those Russian trollcannons!"
"Get me contact with Kevin."
After contact was made with Kevin, Steve shouted,
"Get to the right flank and help Marissa!"
"On it, commander!"
Sergey studied the horizon. The fight was going poorly. If only he could find an American…
"Komandir!" came a feminine voice from the radio. "It's Tatiana! I think the American Hellcats are using invisibility screens!"
"What makes you think that, Tatiana?" asked Sergey.
"Well, through regular binocular settings it turns up nothing, but on infrared settings it detects high levels of heat in the shape of Hellcats!" said Tatiana. "We've taken a shot!"
"We're going over there with you. How many?"
"It looks like four, Komandir!" shouted Tatiana.
"I'm going in there with you! Coordinates!" shouted Sergey, for some reason. After all, he was talking via radio.
"62-95, Komandir!" she replied.
"Veniamin, take us to 62-95."
"Aye, Komandir," replied Veniamin as he brought the IS-3 about. Sergey preferred ex-naval men for his tank forces. They were so much more skilled.
"Yuri, tell arty to support the right flank. We need to break through there. And get me a line to Vladimir. Aleksey," he asked the gunner," set your targeting system to infrared. Those American sons of bitches are using invisitank screens."
"I'm on it, Komandir," he replied.
"Hey, Vladimir," said Sergey. "Move up. See that pile of rocks? Advance up to behind them and wait for reinforcements."
"Can't wait, Komandir," came the crackled reply.
Vladimir was a small man from Azerbaijan. He had a heavy accent, but one that was understandable. He tipped the scales at 140 pounds, and was only 5 feet, 4 inches tall. Amongst his crew, he was known as Little Vlad. Why? Because there was a different Vladimir, the loader. He was six feet, five inches tall. His voice was very loud and very deep. He was Big Vlad.
"Afansiy, take us to 54-87."
"Copy that, Little Vlad," said Afansiy, the driver. He worked his levers and controls excellently. The tank moved smoothly and trundled over a few rocks as it then jetted forward at the rocks in the distance.
"Prepare another shell. Aim for the driver's viewport," said George.
"I'm on it!"
The M6 heavy tank shuddered as another 100mm shell made impact. The tank health indicator number dropped to 313hp.
"Return fire!"
Rick primed the heavy cannon and took a deep breath before pulling the firing trigger. The gun fired and the shell hit smack-dab in the SU-100's driver viewport.
"Take that, you!" shouted George as he witnessed the gun reload.
George was an oddity in the World of Tanks Olympics. He was only 17. His only real discernible skill was his incredible grasp of battlefield tactics.
"Bring us back at 23 degrees, Catherine," he said to the driver. "Go backwards 34 feet and pull into the space between the boulders and the hillside."
"On it, sir," she replied.
The firefight in the left flank had raged for a few seconds already, and already the tanks were taking casualties. The Russians lost two T-34s, but the Americans lost a hellcat to the devastating bursts of ordinance springing from the IS's 122mm maw.
George had seen a vintage move from early in the century about "Captain America", and the evil Nazi scientist, Dr. Zola, shouting "fire again! Fire again!" over and over, and that was what he was shouting the whole time. If only Team USA had more money, they could afford gun rammers for everyone.
Steve pondered the situation. The main battle was opening up everywhere, halcyon bursts of it in the center, dense brawls in the left, and sniping in the right.
"Antigone, I'm deploying all reserves. Radio all remaining Hellcats and set them to the right. Radio all Sherman tanks and send them to the center. Redeploy Kevin left."
"Ok."
"In the meantime, we're going to the center. Bring us over there," ordered Steve.
"On it, sir," said Carl.