November 21, 2021 - Australian Containment Zone #3, Route Gentle

There had been something galling in the early days when the Kiwis came to assist the 'Roos, as they had taken to calling the Australian military. Still, as much irritation as there was in the untouched 'little sibling' of Australia providing military assistance with its massive Others infestation, there was also an undertone of extreme gratitude.

1Lt. Remy Saint-Clair, a New Zealander lost in the Outback, wiped sweat from the back of his neck, squinting at his monitor. He was being treated with a view of the vast Australian desert, as distilled through an electronic periscope perched on top of his gunner's enclosed turret. It was just a normal patrol through the poorly named Route Gentle, part of a large, circular route that connected the well-established rear detachments beyond the Containment Line to three small but highly entrenched and heavily armed SAS outposts inside the Zone. This was a 'fast-mover' style patrol, the opposite of a 'patrol in force.' Saint-Clair's platoon was an armored scout platoon, mostly composed of light vehicles, so he had the opportunity to do one or the other. There was benefits to both, but the primary one here was a rotating rest and coverage element. It was his runner's turn on the clock, and they were pushing through the Route now at a speed that was difficult to maintain when working in a convoy of four vehicles.

Still, he wished he could have that coverage. With four vehicles, you could cover all the cardinal directions, but it required a slower pace to keep your formation. Patrolling in force also resulted in bogged down firefights with anything in the Zone, and that wasn't the purpose of this patrol. They weren't trying to engage with anything; merely note the presence, movement, and consistency of any groups here in the Zone. It was easier to do that with one highly mobile unit than four linked ones. Risky, but, that was the Zone. Risk and risk.

As far the twenty-three different containment zones went, #3 was probably the easiest to work. Easy was all relative, of course. Easy meant that soldiers in the zone counted casualties by the single digits per month, as opposed to the double digits. Still, before the influx of sentry drones, automated bots, and the every popular spastic round, those digits could sometimes be very high double-digits. Even triple digits. It was a stupid thing to have so many people dying in what was strategically useless territory, but those numbers were dearly paid. So much of Australia was considered enemy territory now, that that 'strategically useless' territory had gained real-estate value, if just in trying to prevent the Others from moving to more valuable property, like the densely populated coastal regions.

"Anything in the dunes?" Saint-Clair asked, looking at SGT Jeremiah Duffy. Despite his last name, Duffy was old-stock Maori, and seemed too large for the small cabin of the 'Tuckered Tazzy.' Between them was LCPL Zooey Goose's legs, as she stood in her armored turret, waiting for anything that presented a tempting target. Duffy was running various wave patterns on the Akagi scope, which was linked into a map of the area surrounding the Stoat reconnaissance vehicle. It was linked into ALLEYES, the natural outgrowth of the old US BLUFORCE Tracker, it gave him a massed view of this area of operations, showing the icon of the Tuckered Tazzy roaring along the Route. Saint-Clair had a similar readout on his own monitor that tied into the larger command net in the area.

"Nothing yet, sir," Duffy said. "All in all, a quiet patrol."

"Odd," Saint-Clair murmured. There always at least one peg on the patrol, somewhere down the line. Saint-Clair turned around, watching LCPL Gil Zachary in the driver's seat. The fellow was tapping his thumbs on the wheel, listening to music only he seemed to hear. Odd fellow, but good driver.

"Goose, you see anything?" Saint-Clair asked.

"Sand. And shrubs. And more sand," she said, testily. Saint-Clair smiled. Normally, a recon vehicle fell under the command of a sergeant or lance corporal. Command structures and unit profiles had undergone some adjustments in the last twenty years, and part of that meant that he, as a platoon leader, was afforded the right to a vehicle himself, which made him the 'Tuckered Tazzy's' vehicle CO. Being a unit of more experience than the average armored recon unit, they had an abundance of lance corporal's and experienced NCOs.

Which meant that he got lip from his crew, and by God he was going to take it. A Soldier with experience had the right to be a bit salty, especially to her crew boss.

"I got signature up ahead," Duffy murmured. Saint-Clair turned around, his eyes glued on the periscope imagery. "There, sir," Duffy confirmed, "10 o'clock and in the dust." Saint-Clair turned the periscope in the prescribed direction, and saw it. The telltale shimmer of an AT Field.

"Goose, do you have eyes on?" he asked, adjusting his microphone.

"I see the icing, but not the cake, sir," she complained, "It has to be big, to generate that much of a flux." As if to answer her challenge, a great burst sand exploded on his screen, cascading across the road. Zachary slowed the vehicle, waiting to see what came out and which way it moved.

What appeared in the sand looked like a giant, inverted V, or poorly scribbled M. It was two massive and trunk-like legs, a diamond-shaped body suspended between them. The gray and black thing planted a foot on the road, bellowing a challenge.

"Three second burst, center mass, if you please," Saint-Clair said. The dual-fifty chattered, the spastic rounds creating white and green flares as they struck the golden shimmer of the field. The thing gave a groan that was felt more than heard, shuddering as its Field fluctuated. At the end of the burst, four rounds penetrated, pocking its gray hide.

"Five second burst, once more, Goose," he said. She followed up, chewing holes into the thing before it could reestablish its field. It screamed, and collapsed, trying to fight back as it died on the road.

"That got 'em, Looey," Duffy laughed. There was a beeping from his monitor, and he grimaced, tapping his screen. "I see three more signatures popping up. Two on the left side of the road, one on the right. I think we pissed them off."

"Keep an eye on them, Sergeant," Saint-Clair ordered. "Zachary, give us a little velocity, if you please. Goose, if any of them show their faces, send them to Hell with a kiss."

"Way ahead of you, sir," she called, her legs twisting as her gun turret rotated. The Tuckered Tazzy lurched as Zachary cranked up the gas, circling into the sand to avoid the carcass of their recent victory. Despite being heavily armored and heavily armed scouts, the Stoat class of vehicle could move with proper motivation. They were up to 130 kmh when they passed the three new contacts, more of the V critters. To Saint-Clair's irritation, the unwieldy looking things apparently had some buck in their step too, and were starting to pace the Tazzy.

"Contacts behind us, but their collecting on the road," Duffy reported. "And they're starting to pick up speed."

"I see the bastards," Goose called. She held her fire, despite her blood lust. In spite of the blessing she had received earlier, she was a good turret gunner, which meant she was an extension of the vehicle commander. She would hold fire until expressly told she was weapons-free, or given a fire command. Saint-Clair rotated the periscope, watching the shimmer on his screen as it focused on the three contacts. In front of the lead beastie, a ball of light was forming.

"Right, Zachary!" Saint-Clair screamed, and the driver juked the cockroach-shaped vehicle obediently to the right. The world went black as something brighter than the sun cut a swathe through the tarmac where they had been a moment before. "Goose, weapons free. Nut 'em," he chanted, punching Zachary in the back of the shoulder. That was damned good driving.

The dual fifties began chattering, not in sustained bursts but little staccato blasts. Chukka-chukka, pause, chukka-chukka, pause. Goose exercised the fire discipline of a saint, making her rounds count as she picked and prodded her targets.

"One is down, the others are trying to split," Duffy said.

"The hell they will," Goose snapped, redirecting her fire off to the side and herding one into the other with the skill of a shepherd dog. Chukka-chukka, chukka-chukka.

"One more down, the other's giving up the hunt," Duffy snapped. "Damned good shooting, Goosey!" He blinked, adjusting some dials at his station. "We're getting hailed by the checkpoint twenty-miles up," Duffy called. "They said to blow on through, they know we're—"

Duffy's voice was cut off as something exploded against the Tuckered Tazzy, and Saint-Clair's head bounced off the bulkhead. His helmet had protected him from the worst of the blow, but his vision went foggy for a moment. When it cleared, he saw there was actually a hole in the back of the patrol vehicle. Duffy was slapping the side of his head, fighting with his monitor. "Tracking the shot. Right side, Smarties on the embankment." The Smarties, the tool users, the ones who could use weapons. Way to ruin a perfectly good patrol.

The Tazzy was still moving, Zachary proving his mettle as a driver by keeping them on the road despite the brutal punishment his vehicle had just received. Duffy looked okay, despite being next to the blast.

Goose was screaming obscenities and peppering the embankment with fire, not sustained bursts this time but streams of bullets. She didn't need a fire command this time; getting shot was all the heads-up she needed. Something was plinking against the outside of the vehicle, and a stray round entered the hole and popped against the interior bulkhead.

"How the hell did we all survive that?" Saint-Clair muttered, watching as the miles dropped away between them and the heavily armed checkpoint.

"I'm not asking, sir," Duffy said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling it towards Saint-Clair. The NCO had a trickle of blood on his cheek, and a small burn on his neck, but was none the worse for wear. Saint-Clair marveled at the man's luck.

"You're seeing a medic the minute this buggy stops," Saint-Clair ordered.

"Only if you do to, sir. You're looking gray in the cheeks," the sergeant said. "Took a knock in the head?"

Saint-Clair nodded. "I don't think a concussion, but I'm not the expert." The machine guns had stopped, and Goose dropped down from her turret. One of her small fingers was twisted in an unnatural direction.

"Broke my pinky when the bastards opened up on us," she growled. "Duffy, pop it back in."

"Leave it," Saint-Clair snapped, "Let a medic do it. Don't want your finger useless."

"I feel fine," Zachary called cheerfully from up front. He had taken no injury at all, and felt that was the perfect reason to rub it in his squad buddies' faces.

"You get to fill out our damage report and conduct our PCMI," Saint-Clair chided. The Post-Combat Maintenance Inspection, especially in light of this little jaunt, would be a headache and then some. If Zachary was feeling so chipper, he could do it.

"Happy to, boss," Zachary said cheerfully. Through the front viewport, Saint-Clair could see the combat checkpoint. To call it a checkpoint was like calling a missile cruiser a boat. It was more of a large redoubt, a man-made tunnel in the waste that was part of a large, virtual fence of bunkers, machine gun nests, and minefields.

Per Duffy's interrupted relay, the Tuckered Tazzy blew through the cleared road under the checkpoint at full speed, the Aussie soldiers already off to the side and waiting. Saint-Clair caught a glimpse of two 'Roo soldiers in digital desert camo, their fists in the air as a salute to the battered Kiwi scout as she roared through.

"Polite, our neighbors," Duffy said, sliding out of his seat and sticking his arm through the hole and waving.

"Do that, and you'll lose an arm, Sergeant," Goose teased, sliding onto her traveling stool while holding her injured hand. Saint-Clair turned around and banished the periscope view, bringing up ALLEYEs to fill out an Engagement Report. Two ambushes for a hole in his buggy, possible concussion, one broken finger, and injuries to be determined. And a smart-ass driver.

All in all, a good day in the Zone.