"Accuracy and precision - Practiced ad infinitum."
"Synchronized fire makes for a deadly choir."
"Heavy armor takes the beating as you always advance."
For most of the weekend, Valarie's world was nearly utterly dominated by a single piece of literature. It wasn't some glorious epic fantasy adventure that regaled the journey of an unlikely hero that flooded the mind with images of grand battles and the clash against good and evil, nor was it the latest young adult novel that featured a group of plucky teens standing up to a powerful authoritarian government while simultaneously dealing with a love-octagon that pushed the will-they-won't-they dynamic to its absolute extreme. Well, in the latter case, a few summers back, Valarie did take a deep dive into the Hunger Games books and loved every moment. For that summer, those books came the closest out of everything else to touching her total adoration for the sport of tankery. However, it was in the same vein as someone saying that their jumping brought them close to touching the moon.
What Valarie had read was more academic in nature but captured her all the same. Page after page, word after word, was analyzed and stored deep within her mind so that she could always remember them. That was the least she could do after initially insulting the work of the mother of the tankery athlete she so much admired. And she did more than read.
On Sunday, Valarie highlighted passages from the book she found the most interesting while also writing down notes in her playbook of ideas and concepts for further research and experimentation. She was like a scholar, painstakingly combing through a precious ancient text. She would've been at it all Sunday when Emma decided she just about had enough.
Emma snatched the book right out of Valarie's hands and hid it somewhere in their apartment. Then, she pulled Valarie from her desk, dragged her to and out the door, and the pair went straight toward the movie theater. Valarie's forced date turned out to be what she needed. A distraction from it all and an opportunity to clear her mind and refocus. Ask what movie they watched, and neither girl could give an answer. They made out all the way in the back, shrouded in the darkness where no one could see or bother them.
An excellent movie date, all things considered.
Now, it was early Monday morning, and Valarie was awake. She remained in bed as she stared right up at the ceiling, her hands clasped together over her stomach. She was in deep reflection about the book now missing-in-action. In general, the concepts written at length in the book were things Valarie found agreeable, even if the tone gave the impression that it was the one-and-only way for a tankery team to conduct combat, which did rub her the wrong way.
Though she didn't like everything she read, one section spoke at length about a tankery team's athletes' behavior that detailed how athletes are to address their superiors.
'Yes, ma'am.' 'Yes, commander.' 'Yes, Captain.'
When Valarie read that, she couldn't stop herself from laughing, just as Claudia must've done when she read this book herself. All the formality was so foreign to Valarie. She always found it weird to be referred to as 'ma'am' by adults, and though it was always said respectfully, it never did feel right to her. It all stemmed from her upbringing as her parents kept things incredibly casual. Never have they ever referred to her daughter with terms like 'Young Lady', not unless they were being ironic and having a laugh. 'Honey', 'Darling', 'Sweetheart' were the words her parents lovingly used, but those terms of endearment didn't hold a candle to the amount of use 'Val' received. Damn near everyone called her that.
From close friends to the teachers back in Mojave Rose, even the teachers in Catalina have adopted the moniker.
"Valarie Woodlin...Hmm, do you mind 'Val'?" a teacher asked her on her first day at Catalina.
"I don't," Valarie responded. "Let's keep things casual."
If she merely just tossed out the suggestion of mandating the formality written in the book, the team would laugh at her before tossing the suggestion right in a burning hot fire. Wholly justified, Valarie thought, as she liked the team how it was. Casual.
Another part of the book discussed the tactic of retreat, which, to her surprise, was the shortest chapter of them all. Valarie felt the intense scorn the author had for withdrawal, that it should never be something that is to be ever even entertained.
"Retreat is entirely antithetical to the tankery tactics detailed herein; it shies away from direct confrontation, which is unacceptable."
"When you're face to face with an honest-to-god Standardpanzer E-100," Valarie thought to herself when she first read the chapter. "Retreat is the smartest thing anyone can do."
Though she had a good laugh about it, the fact that it existed was proof that the author was stern, and the back cover solidified it—a photo of the author, a middle-aged woman with long dark brown hair with bangs just above her eyes. Valarie first assumed her attire was the standard business suit that women typically wear, but upon looking more closely, she saw that the woman for pants wore something Valarie more associated with the outfit of a horse jockey. She felt that if she said this to the woman, it wouldn't end well at all.
This woman had her hands together and laid on her lap. The word that came to mind when Valarie first laid eyes on the photo was severe. A woman that you wouldn't dare want to disappoint or, worse, incur anger, a person who looked like they never experienced emotion of any kind and only valued one thing and one thing alone—victory.
Looks can be deceiving.
The woman, this author, wasn't some emotionless automation. At the very least, she had a tiny morsel of it, as evidenced in the book's dedication page.
"To my splendid daughters; Maho and Miho Nishizumi."
The thoughts of reflection soon receded as she rose from the bed and stretched. A peek at her phone told it was six-thirty, so she proceeded to get dressed in her school uniform. The sound of her movement soon awoke Emma, and the girl let out an exaggerated yawn that concluded with a giggle.
"Good morning," Emma greeted. "Already getting ready?"
"Might as well," Valarie replied. "Say, where did you hide that book?"
Emma pouted and crossed her arms. "Why? Haven't you read it cover to cover and took all those notes? What more can you learn from it, anyway?"
Emma's questions were seasoned with irritation. Valarie felt this and, with a slight smile, went back to the bed and placed herself on top of Emma. The shorter brunette exploded into a blush and was at a loss for words as she felt Valarie's hands massage her cheeks with the utmost grace.
"I can't believe it," Valarie said with a gentle voice that made Emma melt. "You're jealous of a book. Aren't you?"
"Well..." Emma spoke, the redness in her cheeks intensifying. "Maybe a little..."
"Don't you remember what I said to you the day after I, uh," she nervously laughed. "'cleaned' the Churchill? I love tanks. I love tankery. But I will always, always love you more."
They hugged, hugged like they had hadn't seen each other for years and now had to make up for the lost time. As they embraced, they shared long, passionate kisses that felt electric, their moods higher than heaven. Emma would've loved them to progress past kissing at some point, but she was totally unsure how to approach Valarie on that intimate subject. She knew how incredibly naive she was about it, so Emma had to be tactful about it all, to move slowly with every step carefully choreographed. Most importantly, the opportunity had to be perfect for them both to engage in the carnal knowledge.
"Have you ever fired a bow?"
"Uh, once or twice."
"Ridden horses?"
"Yep, and I'm not a bad rider if I say so myself."
"Tried things like peyote? They are legal for you, ja?"
A sigh.
In between classes, Viola spotted Louise, and the German girl made a beeline for her. She had an insatiable curiosity about the girl, about her heritage, so that whenever Viola saw her, she always went up to 'pick her brain', as she has put it. Louise was more than happy to share what she knows about her tribe, though the beginning was tough. When the pair first met, when Viola was still on the fence on whether or not to attend Catalina, Louise quickly learned that Viola's complete perception of the American Wild West and Native Americans entirely came from watching old Westerns from the 60s and 70s. It was her favorite film genre, as she has brought up repeatedly with passion, but, as a result, came to accept misconceptions as fact.
So, over a few weeks in these impromptu meetings, Louise's mission was to correct the record. To wash away the stereotypes Viola had unknowingly adopted, pointed her to the resources to give her better insights on the Wild West and Native Americans that movies can never provide, and supplemented these resources with her own personal experiences. Viola has shown remarkable improvement and eagerly devoured every bit of information that left Louise's mouth. Still, there was more to learn.
"Peyote?" Louise echoed. "For Native American tribes, it's legal for them, but for mine, it's, well, something different."
"Oooh? Different?" Viola remarked. "What was it? Do you smoke it?"
"It's called Datura, and, no, you don't smoke it..." Louise paused when from the corner of her eye she saw some student look at her. The word 'smoke' drew their attention, and they wore curious faces that bordered on judgemental. Wanting to get away from prying eyes, Louise grabbed Viola by the hand and lead her away. The pair went up a stairway that took them up some floors where they reached the top, an outdoor hallway with one side lined with classrooms, and the other had the grand majesty of the Pacific to gaze out.
"Just wanted some privacy," Louise explained. "Now, Datura isn't something you smoke. You take the seeds and put them in a hot tea to drink. It's a rite of passage."
"Oooh, a rite of passage," Viola repeated with awe. "What happens when you drink it?"
"Hallucinations," Louise answered with a small grin. "Whenever a Mohave is of age, they take Datura to enter a new state of consciousness. It's a tradition that spans generations, for which I'm glad it's still around. For myself, it was...interesting. It was like I was dreaming, and dreams are super important to my tribe."
"Ah, yes, dreams," Viola remarked with a nod. "Say, if I have a dream, can I come up to you and explain it so you can interpret for me?"
"They are way better people in my tribe who can do that, but I will say this about dreams. They are the source of knowledge. A dreamer could be transported to a time when the world was created and learn about the origin of all things. Some dreamers can gain incredible insight into something that can help themselves and the people around them, like a solution to a significant problem that caused painful stress. Dreams can also be omens, foretelling the future that is to come, good or bad."
"Fascinating," Viola commented with a hand on her chin. "Very, very fascinating. I've got one more curiosity that wants to be satisfied, though, it's rather morbid. It concerns death."
"Go for it."
"When a member of your tribe dies, what's the ceremony?"
Louise breathed in and out calmly and brought her hands together. A gust of wind blew in, causing her thick hair to dance. "When someone dies, their body and belongings are placed on a pyre where they are then cremated. The living dance and wail in remembrance as their departed loved one journey to the spirit world, a process that takes four days. In this spirit world, the deceased meets with their ancestors, and more ceremonies are performed along with transformations. Thereafter, the spirit ceases to exist. The name of the deceased is never spoken again."
"Mein Gott. Genau wie die Wikinger," Viola said with astonishment. "Is that what will happen to you when you die?"
"It's what I want to happen," Louise said. The tone of her voice was undeniably confident and serious. "I'm Mojave. My life will end like one."
"Will your tank be with you when...uh, well, you get ready to depart for the spirit world?"
Louise chuckled. "While I would love nothing more to roll up to spirit world in a Super Pershing," she sighed. "It's school property."
A warning bell was heard, alerting students that they had one minute before they were late to class.
"Always love our time together, Louise...Huh, I never got your last name. Unfair as you know mine...everyone does."
"No surprise everyone knows yours, being the multi-great grand-niece of a German monarch. Ojeda. Louise Ojeda."
"Ah, you got some Spanish in your family tree somewhere!"
Louise smiled. "It's pretty cool."
With waves, the girls departed in opposite directions to their next class of the day. Louise felt satisfied over how far Viola has come since their first meeting. A girl who wasn't high in her own ivory tower and was more than willing to come down to learn, and do so respectfully. A girl Louise happily called her friend.
With the afternoon's arrival, the Mojave Rose tankery team performed their regular duties at the garage. All was well. Normal. Nothing looked out of place to spawn any amount of suspicion. For the Manhattan Project, it was the mood they were hoping for when they got to the garage. Over at the Puma, Aurora had a booklet in hand, rapidly going through pages. She was looking for a specific piece of information.
"What was it...what was it..." she repeated. "You guys think it was Russian?" her voice was near a whisper.
"Maybe," Riley replied. "Then again, for all we know, it's German or Japanese."
"Let's try Russian," Aurora flipped to the Russian section of her tank identification booklet and went down the light tanks. Her eyes then widened, and she firmly placed her finger on a picture of a Russian light tank, the name above reading BT-2. "So that's your name, gotcha."
"How the hell did that thing move without tracks?" Avery inquired.
"Ah, says her that the thing has a Christie suspension. Allows it to move just on its roadwheels if it has to. Damn. Would love it if our Puma could drive without tires."
"It could, but not for very long." Riley chimed in.
"Yeah..." Aurora stowed away the booklet. "I already want a rematch."
"Same here," Avery said. "But how can we ever possibly know who they were? We don't even know what country they're from, just that they were foreigners like us."
Aurora had her head resting on her hand, her fingers rhythmically tapping against her face. "It's impossible then...unless," she snapped her fingers. "That instrument we heard. The music."
"What about it?"
"It wasn't a guitar, but some other kind of string instrument. If we can find out what it was, we can pinpoint the country they were from."
"And do what with that information?"
Aurora shrugged. "Dunno, man. I just want this little mystery dealt with."
Halfway across the garage, the crew of the T-44 tended to their machine. Most of them did, anyway. Ashley was standing off by the side as Heather performed track maintenance, the girl using a big tool to retighten the bolts that held the tracks together.
"I've been thinking about it, now I'm sure of it," Ashley said as Heather labored. "Tattoos. A whole bunch of 'em. On my legs, arms, fingers, on my chest too. Maybe on my face—"
"No," Heather said, who instantly turned around and pointed the tool right at her. "No face tattoos. Anyone where else on your body? Go wild. Your face? No, no, no."
"Geez, okay. No face tattoos. What about piercings?"
"You already got a nose ring."
"Well, I could get earrings."
"Oh, that'd be cute."
"And, there are a few more places piecings can go that, ah, only you get to see."
Heather tightened the last bolt, her breathing heavy. She turned her head, hair partially hiding her face, to Ashley. "That I definitely approve of."
"That, I am glad to hear," Ashley spoke with an excited grin. "Anywho, any luck with that clue?"
Heather groaned loudly. "Nothing. I went through a few guesses last night. Horten Ho 229, Bell X-22, XF-85 Goblin, even tried Aurora."
"Aurora? You trying the names of people on the team now?"
"No, this Aurora refers to a rumored recon plane the U.S tested in the 1980s. I say 'rumored' because the government denies it exists. A guy claims he saw the plane take off from Area 51—"
"And let me guess," Ashley interjected. "You went down a rabbit-hole of all things 'secret government project' and got totally distracted from trying to figure out the clue. Hmm?"
Heather looked down at the floor, embarrassed. "...Yes."
Ashley couldn't stifle a chuckle. "Oh, Heather. That's so you."
"You guys talkin' about planes?" said an incoming voice.
Jacqueline, who was walking by, happened to overhear what Heather and Ashley were talking about, and once she realized they were talking about aircraft, she rushed on over.
"Planes? Prototype aircraft from what I hear," Jacqueline said, giddy. "Can't have a talk about aviation without me."
"How much do you know about planes?" Ashley questioned.
"I know as much about planes as Valarie does tanks."
That gave them the perfect picture.
"Well, shit, mind giving us a hand then?"
"Sure, with what?"
"We're trying to figure out the answer to a riddle," Heather explained. "It says, 'You'd have to be mad as a hatter to fly this thing.'"
Jacqueline paced around the T-44, wrecked with thought as she ran through dozens of aircraft in her mind that could fit that description. Some kind of aircraft where a person would be crazy to fly? That can describe many aircraft, and not just solely experimental as even mass-produced machines can be beset by a whole host of dangers for the pilot. And, as Heather and Ashley were worried about, the answer could very well refer to something not an aircraft, but something not at all meant to fly at all. If that was the case, Jacqueline would be as clueless as them.
Yet, as she worked her mind, she began to have a vague sense of what the clue was talking about. A picture of an aircraft entered her imagination that was familiar to her, but frustratingly, was blurry and out of focus.
"Ugh!" she groaned. "I know this!"
"You do!?" Heather and Ashley said in surprised unison.
"Yes, but for the life of me, I can't remember the name...God, this is annoying!"
"That makes two of us," Heather said with a hint of irritation.
"Hold on now, I got a solution. I got a visual dictionary all about planes back in my apartment. If you guys come over, I'll go through it, and we'll solve that clue together."
"Yes!" cheered Heather. "Finally, some progress. When will the meeting end?"
"Heather, it just started like ten minutes ago." Ashley reminded.
"Oh, for christ's sake. This is gonna be the longest meeting of my life."
For Heather, time seemed to move purposely slow as if this eternal property of the universe has made it a personal mission to torture her. For everyone else on the team, it was not much of a problem as they were all consumed with their work for the minutes to fly by. An hour into the meeting, Valarie gathered all the team commanders for their usual meeting to discuss the strategy for their upcoming match against the Swiss. In the conference room, all sat as Valarie pulled down a screen as a ceiling-mounted projector displayed a satellite image of the area of engagement. An expansive salt flat with scattered small land lasses.
"Salar de Uyuni," Valarie began. "Is where our match is located. A massive salt flat with the only cover available being the scattered prehistoric islands. Because of the near-total lack of cover, our strategy will be different from previous matches. We'll call it island hopping," she pointed to an island with a stick. "It'll be simple; Go to an island, set up a defense, wait for the enemy, fire two salvos, go to next island, repeat. Can't stay for an island too long, or we'll risk getting surrounded without any avenue for escape. Plus, the enemy has artillery."
"Woah," Jacqueline interrupted. "Say again?"
"I've done some research on the Dunant, that Swiss school. They're very proud of the three Hummel self-propelled guns they have."
"Hummels? I saw one when we all went to that German tank museum. That thing is open-topped!"
"Normally, it is. But Dunant has modified their Hummels to be closed-topped to make them tankery-legal. Their rate of fire suffers, but at the end of the day, we'll be facing artillery. It's been a while since we last did. A long while."
"Anything unique tanks we ought to know?" Natalie asked with a raised hand.
Valarie reviewed her notes. "Nashorns, a Stuer Emil, and uh...uh," she blushed, robbed of her speech. She cleared her throat. "And a few self-propelled 105mm guns."
"Are they artillery like the Hummel?" Marielle questioned.
"Ah, no, they're more like tank destroyers."
"Don't they have a name?" Robin asked. "German tanks have names, like Panther, Tiger, StuG, so, what is the name of this self-propelled 105?
Valarie looked at her notes, reread what made her blush, quickly folded it, and stuffed it in her pocket. "Uhhh, it doesn't have one. Weird, huh?"
The commanders of the room looked at her odd when Claudia laughed to herself and stood up. She walked to where Valarie was with hands at her hips, a huge smile on her face. "Val, I do believe that vehicle has a name. I fought against a few back in Maine.
Valarie no longer liked the fact that Claudia previously did tankery. Claudia then turned to face the commanders, amused by the whole situation.
"The name of this vehicle that Valarie is somehow incapable of saying is Dicker Max. An open-topped tank destroyer that this Swiss school surely made closed topped as they did with their Hummels."
There were snickers among the commanders, some over the name itself, others over the fact Valarie just couldn't bring herself to say it.
"You know, 'Dicker' just means 'fat'," Natalie shared, causing the snickers to evolve into laughter. Her head shook. "Oh, come on, guys."
"Can we have some maturity here?" Valarie said to them all. "Please? New rule, no one can say the full name. Anyone who spots the thing can only say 'Max'."
"Awww, where's the fun in that?" Claudia complained.
"The fun will be in the shooting."
"Oh, alright. I guess shooting will have to do..."
Two more hours have gone by, and the meeting has now come to an end. Tools and other items were put away as the garage cleaned. Heather wouldn't wait for a second more. The moment she finished her expedited inspection of the T-44, she grabbed Ashley and Jacqueline and whisked them away back to the apartment complex to finally solve the clue that has been wracking her mind for days.
Once there, Heather and Ashley happily sat on the couch in Jacqueline's apartment as they waited for the girl to come back with the visual dictionary mentioned to them earlier. As they waited, they couldn't help but notice how Jacqueline has decorated the place. The walls were lined with pictures of various aircraft types, some civilian like Boeing 757s, while others were clearly military aircraft such as F-18 Hornets and more vintage planes like the P-51 Mustang. The curtains for her balcony were made to look like an image of a radar, green in color with the outline of the United States that served as the centerpiece.
"She's Valarie, but with planes," Heather remarked quietly.
"Man, without a doubt."
A moment later, Jacqueline returned with the book in hand, all excited. She sat in between them and flipped through page after page until she then loudly placed her finger on what she was looking for. What she couldn't exactly remember in her mind, now in perfect clarity before them all.
"Bachem Ba 349," Jacqueline announced to them. "Also know as...the Natter."
The Natter was a human-operated surface-to-air missile that Germany hoped would be used in large numbers to bring ruin to the Allied bombing campaign. Launched like a rocket, it would fly high, right above a formation of Allied bombers where then it would dive on them, choose a target, and unleash a hellish torrent of screeching rockets to eviscerate its target. However, like most of the other Wunderweapons employed by Germany, the Natter reeked of desperation and would've never altered their fate. It's only proper test ended in the death of its pilot.
"God, flying that thing might as well be suicide," Ashley noted, looking at a picture of a captured Natter.
Heather gasped. "You'd have to be as mad as a hatter to fly the Natter! That has to be it!"
Ashley scrambled to get her laptop out of her bag and raced to the website with the password prompt. 'Natter' was quickly typed, and once the 'enter' key was pressed, the site flashed and displayed a string of numbers and letters.
48° 37′ 42.02″ N, 9° 29′ 53.6″ E
"That's GPS coordinates if I have ever seen 'em!" Ashley exclaimed
"WHAT-ARE-YOU-WAITING-FOR-PLUG-THEM-IN-OR-SOMETHING," Heather shouted, overcome with excitement.
"I'm doing it, geez!"
Ashley went to a GPS website and pasted the coordinates into an input box. The 3D earth on the screen turned to the west, across the Atlantic, where it stopped in Europe, then zoomed deep into Germany. The site then popped up a little fact about the location the girls entered.
Bachen Ba 349 Launch Pads - Available for tourist viewing
"There!" Heather said as she pointed to the screen. "The next clue must be at or near those launch pads!"
"God, it's all the way in Germany!" Ashley moaned. "We were just there, and now we gotta go across the damn world to go right back!"
"We gotta hope and be lucky that this ship at least gets close to Germany at some point," Jacqueline said.
"Just hope, huh?"
"More than hope!" Heather exclaimed. "We must win our next match because then, the chances are good for the match after that to be somewhere in Europe. Then, we go to those launch pads. I swear to Christ if we never get close to Europe again..."
"We'll get to Europe one way or the other," Ashley comforted, her hands gently rubbing Heather's shoulders. "Just gotta wait, and for now, focus on the present. The next clue will be waiting for us. Hell, it's been waiting for years."
With Emma close in tow, Valarie walked around the garage to look at all the tanks to ensure nothing was left outside. During this little walkaround, which also doubled as an opportunity for the pair to have some time to enjoy themselves, they were approached by Gabrielle, who looked more than exhausted. In between her arms was a folder that was thick with paper.
"Girls...mind doing me a favor?"
"Of course, what's up?" Valarie replied.
"What's up is the amount of administrative work for this team," Gabrielle said with half a laugh. "God, it's a lot, especially the logistics. We just had to have tanks from every nation, huh? So many different types of shells, fuel, and spare parts to order. But that'd all be okay if the god damn ATA didn't pile on more sh—er, stuff."
"Like what?"
"One of the things they're asking for is data from the tank's black boxes. You know, the thing that keeps track of hits and logs when a tank is knocked out."
"I know what they are. Why does the ATA want them?"
"Statistics," Gabrielle answered. "They want to catalog all the data from the nationals to compile and study from. See what kind of tank got the most knocked out, the most common type of ammo used, stuff like that."
"Now they're asking for ours? Three months after the nationals ended?"
"That's bureaucracy, Val," Gabrielle said, speaking from years of experience. "The only thing you can count on about bureaucracy is it moving slow."
Gabrielle gave them the folder. "Just go through all the data and make it nice and organized. Shouldn't be too hard, and it'll make for a nice trip down memory lane."
"We'll take care of it."
"Thank you, girls," Gabrielle tapped her stomach. "Oh man, neither of you would happen to have pickle juice, huh?"
Valarie and Emma both shook their heads."
"Figures...I got a massive craving. See you both tomorrow."
All three left the garage and made their way to their respective homes. Valarie and Emma entered their apartment and got right to going through the data to get it out of the way. A pile of papers was dumped on the kitchen table, and they got directly to work. Several piles of paper were created, each one representing the black box data for each of the team's tanks. Valarie was going through the data for the IS-3, and though the heavy tank has never been knocked out, it has been hit, and the data tracked that.
6/22/13 - 10:23 PST - 15cm KwK 44 L/38 - Hit; No Penetration
"Man, what a monster," remarked Valarie
"Valarie, remember this?" Emma then said. She waved a paper in her hand before passing it to her. It was the data for the T-44.
6/22/13 - 1:56 PST - 12.8cm PaK 44 L/55 - Hit; Penetration; K.O
"Oh, do I," Valarie said with a giggle. "We got rocked to hell and back when we got hit there."
"I should've been faster."
"You did your best, and we won, so don't even worry about it."
She gave Valarie a warm smile before getting back to work. The pair shifted and organized the data for several minutes, with them occasionally stopping to remark upon a data set to relish in past memories. Soon, though, Emma came across something that made her stop and reread. She thought her eyes were getting tired and were playing tricks on her, but what was on the data was indeed real.
"Valarie, I think the black box for the Puma glitched out or something,"
"What makes you say that?"
"Because...it says that they were knocked out yesterday by a 37mm gun."
"What? Hand it over."
Valarie read what Emma read and confirmed it. She couldn't believe it. She refused to. "No...it has to be a glitch. Has to be."
A belief that would be shattered moments later when she came across data for the AMR 35.
9/15/13 - 3:34 PM - Hit; Penetration; 37mm Model 30
The information before her eyes couldn't be denied. She could excuse, barely, that data from the Puma was the result of some glitch. Incredibly improbable, but she could accept it and move on. But, the fact that two tanks on the team reported that they were knocked out on the same day could not have been a glitch. No, it was correct, the data captured events that actually happened.
Valarie stood up slowly from the table, clutching each paper in her hand, before crushing them. A rage grew within her, a wave of unmitigated anger that radiated hotter than the core of the blazing sun. She pictured the people responsible and grew even more furious. She then recalled the tankathlon article that just so happened to land by her feet when modifying the Churchill. It all clicked. The Puma and AMR crews have planned this for a while, did it all behind her back. Her hands trembled, for her fury has now boiled over.
"Un...sanctioned...tankery," Valarie said in between hot breaths, her face turned into a scowl. "Those motherfuckers."
The Manhattan Project has had their masquerade broken.
They won't know till tomorrow.
