Typing here, I have the same feeling of trying to sneak into class when you're so late you might's well just called the day a Mulligan and stayed home. You will get noticed, you will get caught, the professor will yell at you, and EVERYONE will stare while you slink off to the back corner seat. Hopefully you will be more forgiving of my tardiness than my old professors. Whew, what a time it has been since I last published! I had thought working from home for a time would be a boon to my output; and I could not have been more wrong. Working from home utterly CRATERED my creativity. If I did one side of a notebook page in rough draft a week, that was a productive week! But the last few months things have returned to a relative normal, and my creative muscles are flexing properly again. Without further ado, let us pretend nothing of note or interest AT ALL OR WHAT-SO-EVER has happened, and I will scurry to the Late Seat of the class so you can get to reading!


. . .

We began the day in the Dairy Queen parking lot across the street from the Cold Stream Dam. This road was Route 322, the very same we had first ambushed the police on. It is the most direct way from the State Police Station to Philipsburg, so at least someone or something was bound to use it; so far as our thinking went. And what better roadblock is there than an M4A3E8 Sherman and its 76mm gun? The only hard part thus far that day had been the waiting.

In fairness to that day, there couldn't have been a better day for waiting. We'd taken up position with forty guys from Solomon and their up-armored trucks; one truck with a bed mounted 0.50cal. They were to protect us in the tank from flanking infantry and to make sure we didn't get snuck up on. When your world view is limited to itsty-bitsy vision slits, cupola vision blocks, and periscopes, you tend to miss things like someone sneaking up on you with a live satchel charge, Limpet Mine, or a lit Molotov; all of which are rather hazardous to my continued existence. The morning had dragged slowly, with gunfire and explosions popping off far, faaaar in the distance. It was easy to keep vigilant, on our toes and constantly scanning for the slightest sign of enemy…for the first couple of hours or so. But even I must get up and move a little deer hunting, and I've been up trees for twelve hours straight waiting, so eventually we disembarked to stretch and relieve our boredom.

By then it was lunchtime, so we sat on the outdoor picnic tables and the other guys rested in house front porches, around backyard campfire rings, or on a sunny patch of lawn. Our packed lunch of chicken or corned beef sandwiches went down well, but as we rolled up the foil wrappers into balls and tried to toss them into the trash cans from twenty paces, our stomachs still felt a might peckish. Josh limped over to the DQ and found whomever left it last had not fully latched the back door. Lieutenant Kitsurubami wanted nothing to do with such 'heinous thievery and wanton mischief' or something to that effect…but I have yet to meet a single soul, Terran, Castran, Liberas, or otherwise that can for long resist the siren song that is a free Dilly Bar. Maybe a Vinculum, but they probably don't have Dilly Bars in The Red Star; so, what do those losers know? She calmed some once we explained the owner was an old family friend, and that he, George, Tommy, and Shifty were all members of the same L.O.O.M. (Loyal Order Of Moose) fraternity lodge; and he'd understand. To buy Mana's goodwill and get her to stop hard-sighing at us, mostly me, we took up a collection as we went around to the other guys to give them their own Dilly Bars. We took the money, stuffed it and a note into an empty Dilly Bar box, taped it shut, and stuck it in the freezer. Quite literally, cold hard cash. But once that fun too was over, there was still not a lot to do. Nothing exciting, anyway. Back in the tank, Johnny and Josh laid a board across the driveshaft housing and played the other at cards. Mike had brought a pocket-sized version of an Elric of Melnibone novel and pursued it with great interest. Mana busied herself writing furiously in a notebook, journal, diary…thing of sorts. That left me, the idiot noob that had not thought ahead to bring anything to alleviate my boredom. In desperation, I reopened the longest war I personally have ever fought: the one with the voices in my head.

'Well?'

'Well… what?'

'Don't you 'well… what?' us. You gonna say something to her?'

'No! Well, yes, I suppose, I mean, well… she's busy. I'd like to say something…'

'What are you waiting for then? You some kind of pussy, or something?'

'Kinda, ah, no? I don't know. I mean, ugh… it's just, y'know… you say 'Well just talk to her' just come up with something why don'cha? What am I supposed to say?'

'Fuck if we know. This whole stupidity was your idea. Just start by uh… saying 'hello'. Try that on for size.'

'No, that's fucking dumb. Why would I randomly just say hello like some kind of sperg? C'mon, we have to do better than this.'

'Why are you making this so difficult?'

'I'm not! I'm not being awkward on purpose! I'm starting to think you, my own mind, are being stupid on purpose. Are you? Are you being stupid on purpose? 'Cause you'd better not be.'

'You talk to other women all the time! Why is it suddenly so hard now? You talk just fine to the ladies at the bank, the grocery store, gas station, Mary-Jo at the vet's office…'

'The key difference between all of those women, and Kitsurubami, is that I have never held a desire to fuck any of them.'

'… As good of a point as that is…'

'Hey, wouldn't it be totally wild if she could read your mind and heard all that just now?! Wouldn't that be just neat?'

'OhMyGoodlyGod, why the fuck would you think that?!'

'I mean, she's Castran; right? Maybe that's a thing they can do. Or, maybe not read specific thoughts, but they can pick up your vibes; y'know?'

'No, no, no…that's, that's not a thing. She can't read minds, or thoughts, or vibes, or anything like that. Just shut up already.'

'Okay, ok…oh-kay…but what if she could?! You'd be in soooo much trouble; all those freaky thoughts we think of!'

'So, yeah, and?! We're just gonna bring all that up now, is that what we're gonna do; in front of her, God and everyone?!'

'No, course not. With your depraved imagination, that would be social suicide.'

'Then why did you bring it up at all?!'

'I dunno… just wanted to be part of the conversation and feel like I was contributing.'

'This is insufferable. Boredom is going to be the death of me.' I was convinced that my head was going to explode if something didn't give The Voices something else to focus on.

"Excuse me, Sergeant Carson?" An outside voice?! OhGodHolyFuckingShitWhatDoIDo?!

"Ye…*ahem*…yes?"

"Are you alright?" Mana had turned around to frown up at me. "You're not unwell or anything, are you?"

"N-no! No, not at all. Why?"

"Your left leg keeps bouncing up and down on your toes, and your knee has been hitting me for a while now."

"Oh! I, I suppose it is. Sorry about that." I locked every muscle in that leg, from belt to boot, to keep it in place. And…now it's quiet again. Come on… think! Of! Something! Okay, here goes. "So… what're you writing about?" Goddammit.

"This? It's, uh, nothing exciting." She shifted the notebook to her right leg and out of my line of sight. "Just field reports, platoon commander evaluations, requests for the Suppo'. Boring things, really."

"There's an awful lot of cross-outs, strike-throughs, and arrows and margin notes for those to be field reports." Sitting above and behind her, I still had a look, limited but just so, over her shoulders. "Or are your notes always that caddywampus?"

"Caddywampus?! Well, I never! Your penmanship would suffer too, if you had even half the responsibility I do; and double the time."

"Look, you can just say 'Yeah, my handwriting sucks, what's it to yah; wanna fight about it?' and have it be no mark against you. One of my best instructors at the O.W. Academy is a tested and certified genius, and he writes like someone smashed his fingers with a hammer."

"Uuhhhggg…" She, you won't believe this, rolled her eyes at me, and said: "The Overwatch Academy…that glorified barn?"

"I will spot you that some…" Read: Most. "…of the instructors are yahoos." Also read: Battier than Transylvanian Belfries. "But just because we don't have robot maids or whatever gaudy fancies you over-funded, pampered, paper-pushers throw money at…does not mean you get to call the Academy a barn."

"Spoken like someone who's envious because they don't have robot maids or staff personnel."

"Not like Overwatch needs the glorified babysitters that staff personnel are anyway."

"Oh, Staff Sergeant." She turned around, folded her notes closed, leaned on the turret ring, and smugly fluttered her eyelashes at me. "All the flavors you could have chosen to be today, and you're going with salty."

"God damn, Jeff." Mike didn't look up from his book. Probably to keep from laughing. "You just got murdered."

"Now hang on just one cotton-pickin' minute!" I wasn't done yet. "I'm not done yet!" See? "If I may put forth a…"

"Orgasmatron, this's OP-2." One of our pairs of two-man pickets wanted a word.

"I'll deal with you later, Lieutenant." I pointed two fingers at my eyes, then at her. She smirked, putting up her hands and shook them in mock fear. I then popped my headset up off my shoulders and onto my ears. "This's the one O-G, go ahead OP-2."

"Requesting permission to fall back with OP-1 and rejoin the line." OP-2 sounded nonchalantly terrified.

"State your reasons."

"We've got ten, scratch, twenty-plus vehicles comin' up the road; both police and those black and tan contractors. Looks like half a damn army."

"Permission is absolutely granted, make sure OP-1 gets back too."

"Already gone, O-G. OP out."

"Oke-ah-doke everyone! It's Nut Cuttin' Time!" Personal items were immediately stored, headsets and helmets donned, and moods set. "OG-2, OG-3, report in."

"OG-3 all ready."

"OG-2 in position."

"Alright gentlemen, we aren't expected to hold off the entire force; just blunt them and give them a bloody nose. Hold your fire until you hear me open up. Give me five minutes fighting, then begin your withdrawal. Understood?"

"Can do!" Both responded in the affirmative.

"God's Speed to us all. Driver, start us up." All was serious business now, as Johnny had already completed his pre-start procedure; certainly not needing my say-so to do so. Five hundred Motor City horses stirred from their slumber and filled ORGASMATRON with thrumming power. "Driver, check."

"We are… sucking, squeezing, banging, and blowing." Okay, we aren't all that serious. Gotta mix some pleasure with business. "All is well!"

"Loader, check."

"Twenty-one Shot, ten AP, twenty HEAT, ten HE, ten Sabot remaining… three thousand coaxial remaining. Coaxial is ready, gun is standing by!"

'And six hundred remaining for the M2 on the turret rear.' I mentally reminded myself, remembering the Browning M2HB delivered to us in Agent Griggs' last run; a gun with Michigan National Guard markings. Strange, that.

"Loader, load Shot and have HEAT on stand-by."

"Twenty Shot remaining, gun is UP!" Mike slammed the round home and levered the breech closed.

"Gunner, check."

"Digital systems are, online. Secondary sights are…" Kitsurubami looked through her periscopic sight that looked out through the turret roof, and the inline sight along the gun. "Clear and correct. Power traverse and elevation are… good. Manual traverse and elevation is…" There was a clunk as she disengaged the powered system and shifted to manual, then ran her controls; putting everything back to powered when done. "Good. Sights are adjusted and ready."

"Bow, check."

"Bow gun is ready, three thousand rounds remaining. Radios are green, countermeasures green. Diagnostics show good highs, good lows, good ins and outs, no bad lights. Smoke is ready. Drone is also… ready. TC, check."

"Vision ports are clear, intercom to all seats coming in loud, periscopes are clear. Small arms are ready…" I had my AK in the rack on the rear turret wall, my guitar and 870 were bungee corded under a tarp on the roof, one of the G&R Specials Naota and Haruko had built as well, and I was strapped with three pistols: my GP100 and P90, and an extra Glock 21 borrowed from Tommy's collection. If anyone got too close it was my job, being the guy with the biggest and highest up hatch and best view, to convince encroachers in seeing the error of their ways. No pressure or anything, just the responsibilities of sitting in the high seat. "And the M2 is ready. Excellent, everyone. Okay, Gunner, I want you to hit the first thing that comes over the hill, no matter what it is; truck, tank, Santa in his sleigh. Hit it 'till it stops moving, keep hittin' it 'till it blows up or catches fire, and then we'll see to any of its friends in turn. Bow, light up any targets of opportunity at your discretion. All clear?"

"Clear!"

"Alright, let's fuckin' do this!" And then we waited, staring furiously up the road for the debut of the first sorry vehicle. Don't worry, don't panic, don't freak out… okay, you can worry a little. But we've got everything going for us. I'm behind several inches of spall liner, several inches more of steel, then sandbag applique armor on top of that, escorting infantry to my left, and a chest deep reservoir lake and river covering my right. I'm in covered concealment behind a brick building, on the reverse slope of a steep hill, that is also a blind turn at the top. What could go wrong?! Lots and lots of things actually, don't answer that question. Just deep breaths, deeeeeep breaths, trust your gut, it's gotten you this far…it's gonna be fine…breathe…just breathe…

. . .

"So what's it called again? A foo-gas?" The driver of the column leading RG-31 asked the shotgun rider.

"No, you're still not saying it right." The shotgun seat rider corrected as their vehicle began its long descent downhill towards Cold Stream Dam. "It's 'foo-gah-zzz' and not this 'foo-gas' you insist on."

"However you pronounce it…" The driver wanted past this sticking point. "It sounds like a shit way to go. Coated in a football field's worth of napalm from the sounds of it, and lit on fire?! No thanks; I choose Life!"

"No shit, and to think it was dreamed up by a Frenchman."

"By the French? Really?"

"Yeah, like sixteen hundred something. Flame Fougasse are actually pretty old tech."

"And I thought the French were just a pack of soft-cheese eating surrender monkeys. That's fuckin' badass."

"The Brits came up with an even cooler version that…hold up." They were rounding the corner and the waters of Cold Stream became visible down to their left. To the right of that was the park and playground, then a large billboard next to the road. It read in bold, black letters:

Keystone Photos and Vignettes

Look here - - - - - - - - - - -~

Smile

Wait for Flash

"What the…?"

. . .

"Gunners, vehicles front! Engage!"

"Got it!" Mana centered her sights on the unsuspecting RG-31. No holdover or drop, impossible to miss at this range. "Ready!"

"Send it!"

"On the way!"

. . .

"…fuck is…?" Driver and shotgun seater wondered aloud as they followed the arrow's point across the street to a Dairy Queen; and the menacing brownish-green lump next to and behind it. Before they could work out the lump was a tank, the lump emitted a dust billowing and brilliant flash. Immediately after, a hurricane sized significant event struck the RG-31 and wreaked all sorts of severe emotional distress among its occupants. A tapered cylinder of solid steel the size of your forearm and fist, travelling over twice the speed of sound, slipped through the RG-31's radiator, ripped the engine block from its mounts, and plowed the engine and all its attachments through the dashboard, the driver and shotgun seats, and deposited the solid block, accessories and all and sundry into the rear passenger seats; all much to the surprise and disapproval of all inside the vehicle as it came to an immediate halt. To the second vehicle in line, it appeared that the lead vehicle's engine compartment had burst asunder, throwing support and secondary systems such as the alternator and power steering pump across the roadside; with no idea yet of the grisly disaster inside the now lifeless crew compartment.

"Bravo-1-1, why are you stopped?" Bravo-2-1, second in line, pulled alongside the now heavily smoking vehicle. "Bravo-1-1 respo… oh fuck me jogging; that's a goddamn tank! Bravo-Actual, we've got armor, front! It's a…"

. . .

"Loading HEAT, nineteen remaining! Gun's UP!"

"Good affect, Lieutenant." Sergeant Carson was at 'eyeball defilade', peering just over his open hatch's rim to better observe the battlefield with his binoculars. "And great shot; two down. Same on next target…. MRAP front!"

"On it!" Mana pulled back with her right hand to traverse right, and lightly back with her left to elevate just a hair. The laser sights fixed on the front of the MRAP's engine compartment; and she'd already typed in the correction for the different round type; mentally figuring the change in drop for the less dense round to double-check the computer's numbers. "Ready!"

"Send it!"

"On the way!" Mana pressed hard with her right toes and all 33 tons of ORGASMATRON rocked as its gun thundered; it's breech recoiling, still unsettlingly close, next to Mana's head. The HEAT round slammed its way deep into the engine, then its core detonated. The firewall did nothing to stop the commander and driver from being shredded in the hell-storm of high-speed shrapnel and engine parts. The bulkhead behind them protected the passengers and roof gunner, but their vehicle was dead in the water with leaking fuel and oils beginning to burn.

"Loader, change to Shot." Mana called, not wanting to use up their stock of HEAT so early, or against these smaller vehicles.

"Swapping." Mike picked up a round with a shell painted black out of his Ready Box, and exchanged it for the HEAT round. "Nineteen HEAT remaining, nineteen Shot remaining, gun is UP!"

"Gunner, IFV, front!" Trying to wriggle its way around the first three vehicles was an ACV-15. Atop its roof the gunner nervously scanned with his Bushmaster 25mm cannon for the source of incoming rounds.

"On it!"

"Send it!"

"On the way!" Mana declared with the sight dead center on the ACV-15's front plate. CRACK-THOOOOM! Shouted out ORGASMATRON, and was answered with a defiant P-TH-WHANG! As the AVC-15 angled at the last second. The Shot round skated across the front slope, leaving a jagged trough behind and passengers with ringing ears as the round sailed harmlessly off into the hills beyond.

"No dice Gunner, bad angle." Jeff remarked before drawing a deep gasp and ducking his head into the turret; pulling his hatch down with him. The ACV-15's Bushmaster had found them. In retaliation it spat out several shots of 25mm rounds. The sandbags they had stacked on external racks, bolted onto ORGASMATRON, took most of the damage; of the rounds that actually landed and didn't turn the dining room of the Dairy Queen into a splintered mess. Not informed they would be facing any armor at all, the D.R.S. crews had only brought High-Explosive Tracer rounds. Nothing to pierce armor. Excellent against cars, trucks, exposed infantry, or your average barricade, but useless against the M4A3E8's armor. Slamming and exploding shells shuddered the tank to its tracks with firsts a THUD, then a PWONG! As the explosives went off outside. The spall liner twitched and pulsed as it caught small shards flaking off the inside that otherwise would have made grievous injuries.

"Good God Damn, that is loud." Josh had his hands over his headset's earpieces.

"He's awful torqued about something, ain't he?" Jeff said as another three rounds came in: one landing short and blowing a hole in the parking lot, one spanking off the side of the turret, and one hitting the Dairy Queen and blowing to sticky, syrupy smithereens the soda fountain. "Loader, give me Sabot. Gunner, angled or not, he won't shake this one off!"

"Nine Sabot remaining, gun is UP!"

"On it, TC." Mana confirmed, mildly miffed an APC had been her first ricochet.

"Send it!"

"On the way!" The Sabot fired, painted green nylon halves falling away and the tungsten dart screamed to its target; inaccurate over longer distances, but dead-on this close. The front plate stood no chance, only managing to bend the tungsten dart into a banana curve as it penetrated. Located in the vehicle's front right, the engine took the brunt of the Sabot's rage. Already bent, the dart broke in half. One half jammed itself into a cylinder and pinned the piston in place. The other half boomeranged off, burst through the firewall, shattered into a spray of razors, amputated the gunner at his knees, and slashed half the passengers inside to bloody ribbons. Grinding metal and spitting smoke, the engine valiantly continued trying to cycle; despite the driver's furious swearing at his machine. Mid-turn the engine ground out its last energy and stuck fast; oozing smoke and noxious fumes. The driver and surviving passengers fled out the back, leaving the road blocked to vehicle traffic.

"Excellent effect on target." Jeff felt safe enough to return to eyeball defilade and his improved visibility. "We've built ourselves a lovely little roadblock here. I'd love to see them try to…" He was interrupted by a distant PONK, and a smoke grenade exploded to their front.

"Switching to thermals." Mana flipped the toggle with a thumb. Most of her screen went green and black, with blazing white atop the hill where vehicles burned. Then several smaller white forms began moving down the hill. "Infantry, front." She pressed her left toes and heard the Psht-Clack of the solenoid switching triggers. "Going to coax."

"Bow, keep their heads down." Jeff ordered, half standing on his seat to see over the Dairy Queen's roof and to their left.

"Engaging." While Mana could use pinpoint snippets to take out encroaching enemies, Josh fired blind and in longer bursts through the smoke and up the hill. His fire dissuaded anyone new from trying to brave the corner. For that exact moment in time, it appeared ORGASMATRON and crew had things on lock.

. . .

"The fuck's going on up here?" A D.R.S. Lieutenant made his way forward. Veteran of numerous undocumented wars, with the scars to match, he wanted to see the situation with his own eyes. "Did I hear someone say 'tank' on the radio?"

"That you did." A State Patrolman confirmed. "Look here, follow me." They crouched and crawled beside the more heavily smoking AVC-15, using it as cover. This also, unknowingly, hid them from Mana's all-seeing, thermal-seeking eyes. "Down there and behind the Dairy Queen."

"I'll be a sunova bitch." The D.R.S. Lt was impressed as he peeked around the ACV-15's drive wheel. "That's a damn Sherman tank down there. Holy shit."

"A, ah, t-tan…t-tank?!" The Patrolman was visibly rattled. "What do we do?! No one said a thing about goddamn tanks!"

"Same here. We didn't bring anything anti-armor with us…if I'd known this would be on the quiz, I'd have studied harder. Fuuuck…" As he weighed his options, a strange euphoric calm overcame both Mercenary and Patrolman. Caleb's early morning supplement had activated and begun its work. Now the thoughts of the trooper and merc transformed from 'Oh holy-fucking-shit-balls! It's a tank!' to an unimpressed outlook of 'Oh, it's just a tank. We can kill it, no… problem.'

"So what do we do?" The Patrolman asked firmly, for orders; not from panic.

"First, we're gonna have to get close." The D.R.S. Lt beckoned the trooper back. "Then, leave the rest to my guys. You'll just have to get us down there; can you do that?"

"Of course."

Around the backside of the hill the convoy flanked, driving through woods and over flower gardens to approach the tank from its nine o'clock position. Then down the hill they quickly came, running headlong into the tank's supporting infantry; all lying in wait. A D.R.S. squad was mowed down without warning, but now the defenders had blown their concealment. Wood sided and stick framed houses gave no cover from the attacker's M240's and M2HB's. Homes were ventilated to resemble orderly blocks of Swiss cheese, and shellacked defenders scurried out back doors and windows. They dragged screaming wounded or lugged freshly dead along with them, throwing any manner of explosives or automatic fire they possessed to cover their retreats.

But now the police were in their natural habitat. They began clearing houses room by room with ruthless and brutal efficiency. No prisoners were taken under the thuddy clacking of breaching teams' UMP-45 sub-guns; while D.R.S. pulled security outside. The police also put their vehicles to work, driving through blocked doors or smashing in whole walls to gain unexpected entrance to a house and swarm any unfortunate defenders. And when they found someone too competent at defense for their liking, the remaining ACV-15 would blast them and their position to toothpicks. It was under the hammer of this onslaught that ORGASMATRON's escort commander quite reasonably concluded he and his still green fighters weren't going to be able to hold on any longer. Their new battle was to survive the next few minutes and escape to fight on tomorrow.

. . .

"OG-1, this's 2 and 3! Requesting permission to fall back! There's too damn many, we're gonna get fuckin' rolled here!"

"Granted, go, go, go!" I was now at 'name-tag defilade', looking up over the Dairy Queen's roof. I had been trying to see where the convoy had snuck off to, with all the smoke they had been throwing at us; smoke grenades by the dozen! Just PONK… Poof! PONK… Poof! One right after the other. "Pull back to the edge of town proper and get set up, we'll cover you."

"See yah there OG!" The overall din increased as our escorts sought to make themselves some breathing room. Now I had to follow through on my promise.

"Driver! Back us up, traverse left, then proceed forward at one-quarter speed."

"On the move." Johnny shifted, backed us away from the (now ruined, I am so, so, so very sorry Mr. Oliver!) Dairy Queen, got us turned left to face our nine o'clock, and started us through the lot and out back at a crawl.

"Loader, swap for HE."

"Nine Sabot remaining.' Mike updated as he pulled the unused round from the tube and stowed it in one of the hull sponsons. "Nine HE remaining, gun is UP!"

"Gunner, try not to directly hit any houses; if it can be managed." I was already dreading trying to explain to everyone I had used the town's favorite summertime snack spot as cover and gotten it blown to bits.

"Aye, TC. I'll stay on coax for now." I risked a quick look down. Kitsurubami was locked into her controls with laser focus, manipulating all four appendages effortlessly in sync; like she'd spent countless hours practicing for this unique, niche role. 'Must be a natural born Gunner.' I thought. 'Or something else is at work… focus up! More important things at hand!'

"Okay. Bow too, scan and engage." Both Kitsurubami and Josh opened fire on approaching blues, black and tans, and kept enemy heads down while our guys scrambled for their trucks. Their truck mounted 0.50cal added its support, sending messages home through hard cover that ORGASMATRON's lighter 0.30cals couldn't quite reach. But as the last pickup truck hauled ass to town proper, even the truck MG had to bug out. I gave the order, and Josh pressed one button on his bank of controls. There was a sharp PUR-UUPPPPPP! As our smoke grenade cluster fired, popping off six grenades in a wide arc to help obscure the retreating MG truck. Until now, I had kept the Dairy Queen to our four o'clock position, so anyone trying to lob a shell over the burning vehicles we'd knocked out, would have had a hard time hitting us; assuming the shell got through the DQ first. In hindsight, this proved to have not been the best choice.

. . .

"The technical's leaving!" Having taken the scenic route down the hill, a squad of D.R.S. made it to the Dairy Queen. Just across the lobby and dining area, they could hear the revving, thundering and MG staccato of a tank in battle. And, wisely using a pocket mirror to look around the corner, the tank's attention was elsewhere. "Now's our chance, go!"

Five lithe forms slid through the restaurant and leaped out through now empty window frames. Each had a hatch to attack, while the last one pulled security for any straggling escorts. Where these yahoos had gotten a working M4A3E8 from didn't matter, just that they were going to disable it, drag the crew out by their short hairs, enthusiastically engage in a spirited discussion and airing of their grievances, and then claim the tank as a war prize of their own. Swiftly they approached, wondering for a moment at the letters ORGASMATRON painted along the gun barrel; distracting the D.R.S. Lieutenant for a split-second of lost focus. A split-second was all it took for him to miss that the commander's hatch was open, and the TC had spotted him.

. . .

As a matter of course, there are different strokes for different folks, but it is a general trend that American TC's like to fight with our hatch open so as best to see the world around us; especially at our four o'clock position on the edge of our vision. Something moved in the corner of my right eye, where there should very much not be ANYTHING, moving. And lo! Behold, count 'em now, one, three, four! Five D.R.S. Sneaky Boys. And all with grenades in their hands. This…this could not stand. I drew the highest up pistol on my carrier, no time to go for the shotgun or rifle, and giving my best War Cry, let loose with the Glock 21… what, what'd the War Cry sound like? Uh, well, see, here's the thing. I gotta preface this. I'd just been caught off guard by a sapper squad sub-50 yards from me, so my heart rate (already faster than a coked-up ferret's) quadrupled, and I took a huge fish-gulp of air. AND, it's not like I practice these in the mirror or anything, AND my voice couldn't quite decide who I wanted to sound like at that moment. So what came out was this half-strangled, half-bellowing, shriek. Seemed to at least confuse 'em for a second; which was good enough. It could have been worse. I could have screeched "REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" at them instead. So I at least maintained a shred of dignity as I missed my first two shots.

The third shot, however, I hit one of them in his hip and he went straight down; like his legs had turned to rubber. He landed hard too, his face hitting the asphalt with a sickening crack; and he checked out of this world right then and there. The second one, we're still note quite sure what he was thinking; and we've discussed it at length. We suspect he was supposed to go for either Johnny or Josh's hatch… and either forgot about or didn't see Josh's M240 barrel sticking out of the Bow mount. Which Josh used to put about ten rounds into the man at a preposterously close range; the muzzle blast and bullets ripping the D.R.S.'s left arm and torso to stringy bits.

"WWAAAAAUUUUGGGHHHHH!" Screamed one as he scaled the tank's side and turret, headed for me. (That's how you do a War Cry. The key is confidence, practice, and possibly being part Ork.) With no room or time to turn on him, I dropped down into the turret, pulling my hatch with me. And folks, the man almost got me. Had I been a gnat's pube slower or him faster, he'd have gotten ahold of my hatch and a grenade into the turret; and that'd be the end. Instead, he got his fingers slammed between several inches and fifty pounds worth of steel. Ohhhh…Lord Jeebus above, did he scream.

The other two had climbed up the port side, one trying at Johnny's hatch and the other at Mike's. Through our periscopes I could see the one forward, kneeling half on the front slope, bashing at hinges and periscopes with his rifle.

"Gunner, fast traverse left." Mana swung the gun as fast as it would go by pushing all the way forward with her right hand; and pushed down slightly with her left hand for good measure. There was a satisfying THONK as the gun barrel cracked the contractor flush in the forehead and swept him off the deck to the ground.

"He doesn't give up, this guy." Mike nodded back at an annoying banging noise outside. Through my cupola ports, I could see the contractor by Mike's hatch had held on when the turret swung and was resuming his attempts at gaining entry.

"Right over your shoulder." By Mike's right shoulder was a six by six hatch for loading in ammunition or pitching out spent shells. It's so you don't have to haul main gun shells onto the turret roof, then down through a hatch and turret. Since the turret had turned, this little hatch now opened to the engine deck; where the contractor was standing. With a reluctant, heaving sigh, Mike drew his pistol with his left hand and opened the reloading hatch with his right. Putting his P90's barrel in the hatch he snap fired two shots: one into the contractor's shin, and the other into his opposite foot. He too also screamed bloody howling murder but ceased his knocking on our turret and dutifully fell off the engine deck to the parking lot below.

"Wasn't there one more?" Mike asked, tucking his pistol away.

"Don't see him…" I scanned my view-ports and caught him climbing up for another go. "Ope, there he is! I'll get him." The AK came off the rack and I latched its bayonet onto the end. "Okay, okay…huff… huff… Deep breaths. Here goes!" I flung the hatch up with my left arm, spring assisted opening, and thrust up with my right arm. Just as I did this, he was drawing up for a swing at my periscope and still hollering and bellowing something mighty loud; nearly shattering my nerves with his animal fierceness. The bayonet caught him just above the belt and sank to its hilt into his guts. I jerked the trigger with fumbling fingers and fired several rounds up through his abdomen, under his armor, and out through his shoulders. His sound died with the AK's blasts and fell out of sight with no more to say. A quick survey around showed we were temporarily clear. Now blood showered, I pulled my hatch down again and latched it. Ohhhh…boy…oh…don't be sick now… not now, not in front of…BLLEEAAUGGHHGHhhhh…

"Lieutenant… I will buy you a new uniform."

"That…that's, that's not necessary, Staff Sergeant; it happens to the…best of us..." Mana said, visibly fighting her urge to fly screaming out of the tank and dive into the cleansing waters of Cold Stream. Beneath a vomit stained shirt, I could see her shoulders, arms and back flexing and straining as she held herself down in her seat.

"TC, what do we do?" Johnny could see the police and contractors were regrouping.

"Take, take us back up the hill. Forward gear, full throttle. Bow, fire our remaining smoke and start the screen. Gunner, traverse to rear and shoot anything that follows us."

"Roger, TC." Johnny ran us at full-tilt to town while Josh popped off the last six smoke bombs into a blossoming, impenetrable cloud. Another button press started smoking an oil container in the engine compartment to add to the gray haze. Finally, Kitsurubami spun the turret around and put several HE rounds downrange, switching to coax between Mike's reloads. Mostly she threw scoops of dirt and parts of buildings into the air, but on one I think I saw multiple bodies fly. Closer to town now, our escorts opened up to see us the last few hundred yards in. We pulled in behind the second house on the block, leaving track marks that the owner will probably never figure out. Now in cover and concealment, and out of range from vengeful gunfire, we could safely dismount. Mike and Johnny circled the tank to inspect for damage, while Kitsurubami and I used the house's garden hose.

"Get-it-off-me, get-it-off-me, get-it-off-me, get-it-COLD-COLD-COLD!" She squealed as the water hit her and blasted my chicken, corned beef, bread, cheese, and Dilly Bar puke off her back. "Uhhhggg… ugh… Gods, that's cold. But at least I'm clean again. Or, will I ever be truly clean again, having been so horribly defiled?"

"I said I'd buy you a new uniform." I reminded between using the hose to spray my mouth clean of chunks and bile. "And we can always try laundering that one."

"You don't understand." Now soaked because she had refused to hold still while I hosed her off, she took off her uniform's light coat to try wringing it out. Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare at Kitsurubami's fit, toned body wrapped in tight, wet clothes, don't do it, don't do it, don't you goddamn dare. "It's more of a mental stain. Like, for example: accidentally drinking out of someone else's workout canteen and the straw that they had slobbered all over. No amount of mouthwash, flossing and tooth brushing gets that out."

"Bizarrely specific, but okay. Never thought I'd leave such a mark on a woman's back like that…" Wait, wait, wait… wait. Did I just say that out loud?!

"Huh?"

"Whargle-garble-garble." I put the hose back to my mouth and rinsed again; that will learn me.

"Oh, never mind." Thank G.A.B.S. and the F.S.M. she didn't catch that! "Wait, what did you say…?"

"Carson!"

"Bllurble…ahhh. Yes, Mister Nowak!" Our escort commander wanted a word; bless him. "What can I do for you, sir? Excellent work, really; truly. How are your guys? Everyone doing okay, anything I can do?"

"Thank you. We're alright, kinda-sorta...not really." Over his shoulder, on front porches, lawns, and on a front-kitchen table, wounded were being worked on; some with more success and less skin-crawling screaming than others. "Bit in a rough way, actually. I've eight dead, twice as many wounded; and four of them might not make it."

"Dear God, okay, hold on." I went to the sidewalk and peered up the road towards the intersection. "Yep, roadblock's still there; Lewis didn't get pulled. Okay, here's what's up. Those're Lewis's guys at the intersection. Have half of them come forward here to relieve you, and leave your fifty cal truck for them. Send your unwounded guys to the intersection and have them fold in with Lewis. You, and your wounded, mount up and go back to G&R to get treated. Have them fixed up, get something to eat, take it easy. Sound kosher?"

"Will do, Carson." Nowak started off, stopping for a moment. "Thank you, really."

"Don't thank me yet. There's much still to do before we sleep. Go on man, go! Go rest!" While Nowak set about carrying out his orders, we busied ourselves checking on the state of ORGASMATRON. For being over seventy years old, it had done exactly as demanded of it.

"We'll have to repaint, of course." Josh fit a thumb into one of the 25mm pockmarks on the front slope where a sandbag had been blown off, next to his periscope. The sandbags we'd added had soaked up most of the abuse thrown our way and were readily replaced. "But otherwise, if my eyes don't deceive me and my diagnostics are reading everything correctly, and of course they are 'cause I'm awesome like that, all of our optics and sensors are good-to-go. I'll say this much more though: thank God they didn't shoot at us with any of those AT4's."

"I was wondering about that, or the lack thereof rather." Johnny mused while checking our tracks for damage. "Those twenty-five mills were HE, no AP. And we didn't get shot at with a single rocket. They had to have known we appropriated all those cannons, field guns, and this tank; right? I mean, I know Canti said the camera system was shut down, but someone surely noticed thirty tons of steel just up and drove itself away...right?! I know it's a faux-pas to question our good fortune, but this is ridiculous."

"Maybe they shot all their AT's during The Raids?" Mike suggested. "They had no problem burning one to blow down the shop's door." He paused to heft out a bag filled with spent shells from the catch bin. With the canvas sack snapped onto the back of the turret, these shells would be later reloaded. "Unless...whomever did know, because I bet my beard someone did, they elected to keep that info to themselves; for whatever reason."

"And woe be unto him, once The Man in Black discovers that little omission!" Johnny indulged us all in the sadistic pleasure of unfortunate soul and their imminent doom. "They'd be better off taking the easy way out."

"The easy way?" Kitsurubami, now sufficiently less soggy, asked.

"Easy way." Josh made an 'L' of his thumb and finger, put his fingertip to his temple, and: "Ker-Pow!" blew his metaphorical brains out.

"I agree; as morbid as that may sound. Men in Black have never been known as a merciful or forgiving kind."

"You've much experience with them?"" I asked, wondering where and when our own resident suit 'n' sunglasses wearing troublemaker would make an entrance.

"Only in passing, or by accident." She recounted. "My unit doesn't have any Hunters; we leave such targets to the G.S.P.B. But every time we have encountered them, it's been harrowing at best."

"More or less than your first combat in the Gunner seat?"

"Well..." She gave me a scrutinizing look; I probably still had a bit puke stuck to a boot or something. Maybe she'd caught me ogling her and was deciding on if to report me. For my sanity, we'll assume it was the puke. "As dangerous and terrible as Men in Black are, I can honestly say not a single one of them has ever vomited on me. But both are..." She took a strange, heavy sigh. "...Exciting, in their own ways."

"That's one way to put it..."

"Any and all Sierra-Papa call signs, please respond!" Everyone with an active radio heard the frantic call over the general channel. "Any Sierra-Papa call signs, this's Sierra-Papa-3; please respond!" Sierra-Papa-3 was on the northeast side of Philipsburg at the elementary school and surrounding area.

"Sierra-Papa-3, this's tank Oh-Gee, go ahead."

"O-G, we've been cut off and are being overrun! We can't stop them!" There was a pause filled with frantic full auto fire. "They're doped up or something, they don't stop; it's like fucking zombies! We need reinforced now or we're done for!"

"Understood Sierra-Papa-3, we're rolling." Johnny, Josh, Mike, and Mana hopped through their hatches, just as our new escorts arrived. Unaware of our commitment, they started to dismount. "No, no, no! Guys, c'mon, back in the trucks!"

"We're not staying? Change of plans?" Their commander was half out of his truck with a foot already on the ground.

"We've gotta go get Mister Bragg up by the school; he's in a bit of trouble."

"Bragg? He owes me beer money. Oke-ah-doke gentlemen, you heard Carson! Mount back up, we have to go bail out second shift. Hey, this area going to be okay if we're gone?"

"Misters Crocker and Hoppes are out hunting somewhere behind us, around the YMCA and electric substation. We gave them Barrett M82's, they'll slow down anything coming up this road."

"Crocker and Hoppes? Good 'nough for me. Lead on!"

"Sierra-Papa-3, this's tank ORGASMATRON and escorts OG-1 and OG-2 en-route to assist. ETA five minutes." As I lowered my legs into my hatch, whacking my cast on the edge as I went to much, so much bone ache, Johnny already had us started and moving. "How copy?"

"Solid, OG. Just hurry, come with all speed! They aren't falling when hit and get back up when they do! We're gonna be out of ammo soon, hurry!" As we swung onto the road and our escorts formed up, I had the feeling I had forgotten something imminently important. What was it, what was it, what was...ah.

"Sierra-Actual, this's tank OG, come in."

"This is the Sierra-Actual, go ahead." Tommy was doing a good job of sounding un-harried.

"OG is responding to Sierra-Papa-3's request for assistance, moving now."

"Negative OG, hold...break." There was a pause, and I knew I had just severely tested Tommy's patience. "OG, belay last. Proceed to Sierra-Papa-3, we will reroute to cover your last position."

"Many thanks, Sierra."

"Jeff, this is a bad habit of yours." Tommy admonished. "But at least you let someone know this time. Progress."

"I understand. OG out." As we headed at flank speed for the school, Bragg's words rattled around my head. Doped up. Won't go down. Won't stay down. Zombies. I wished dearly in that moment for a brace of canister shot.

. . .

Patrolman Hynen and his column were two miles from their first objective, the elementary school, when the drugs began to take hold.

"Hey, Hynen, I'm... I'm feeling kinda..." The trooper next to him in the MRAP stared down fascinated with his own hands, blinking profusely. "...Kinda funny. You feeling funny too?"

"Good funny, bad funny?" Hynen asked as the same symptoms began on him. "Oh, I get it.'

"Not really either or. Just, funny. You?"

"Yep, just funny." Still conscious of what he was doing and his surroundings, simultaneously a soothing mist clouded over his mind; putting aside all his fears. Doubts about what he was doing, worries about his family, questions about if what he was doing was the right decision, any responsibilities, all melted away. All that was left was the mission at hand, and how to best go about it. Nothing else mattered or entered thought. For the first time, Patrolman Hynen was entering a live-fire zone completely relaxed and at ease.

The column stopped shy of a hillcrest. On the other side, two hundred yards away, was the elementary school; and it was one hundred yards of open field before the first piece of solid cover. The road itself was blocked by a wall of cars and tires that flared to flame as they approached; and either side of the wall was blocked to vehicles by forest.

"Oh, come on. It's only a hundred yards to cross." Hynen found himself saying, having the horrific memory of a week past and advancing across an open field against entrenched enemies, suppressed by the drugs coursing through his veins. In his newfound haze, it seemed to all go so fast. In a blink they were lined up and marched off, the vehicles and grenadiers launching smoke. Away Hynen and dozens of his fellows sprinted, charging downhill in unchallenged silence. And for the first fifty yards, everything was going rather well.

From somewhere ahead, a machine gun opened fire in a wide, cutting arc across the body of attacking police and mercenaries; then it seemed the entire town opened up on them. The first man to his front took seven rounds and crumpled in on himself. Behind him the second man took five hits and covered Hynen with an over spray of blood and bits. The man to his right took two to the head and crashed neck-stump first to the ground; only identifiable now by his ID tags. Hynen lurched left off the street and out of the line of fire. He took cover behind a house and discovered that so far, he was the only one to have made it. The rest were either dead or flattened behind any scrap of cover they could find; most in a small divot in the hillside. Then someone on the right-hand side of the road made it to the first house on his side.

"Trooper Paul!" Hynen hailed and Paul signaled back.

"You got any eyes on?!" Paul shouted over the gunfire din. They could only hear between bursts, and only that because they were just on opposite sides of the road and bellowing at the top of their lungs.

"No, you?!"

"Let me look!" Paul leaned forward, peeking around the corner and up the street. Forward and left of Hynen, hidden in some house's attic, a sniper fired. Paul's helmet flew off and rolled back up the street, and his body fell with a lifeless thump on to the sidewalk; the top of his skull blown away and the grey matter inside spilling out. If he had the wherewithal to process this, Hynen would have been horrified at this sight, a fellow officer's brains bleeding onto the concrete. However, now it didn't faze him in the slightest.

By now a few others had made it to the house he was behind. They recognized they couldn't go back to the field, left took them to ambushes unseen, and right across the road under a sniper's watch. Forward was the only option. Smoke grenades were lobbed down the road and heavy automatic fire followed to compete with the machine gun and keep its gunner's head down.

"Let's go, stay right behind me!" Hynen took his frag grenade from its pouch and expected the dozen others to follow and provide walking cover fire. "Keep up, keep up!" Sprinting at breakneck speed, he pulled the grenade's pin while holding the spoon down tight. As soon as he cleared the smoke and could see the machine gun staring at him from a windowsill, he let the spoon fly and the fuse begin burning. The gunner saw him. One-one-thousand. He began to swing the machine gun Hynen's way. Two-one-thousand. Too slow. Three-one-thousand. Hynen pitched the grenade through the open window and threw himself down at the base of the wall. As soon as he landed the grenade went off inside the room. Glass shards and furniture splinters blew into the street and the machine gun was silenced. Right behind the grenade's blast, before the smoke even cleared, the following squad breached the building's door and began clearing it out. Their efforts were marked by sharp bursts of UMP-45 fire and shrill, dying screams.

In this manner the police and PMC's swept down towards the elementary school. Defenders were grenaded or blasted out once the AVC-15's and Ratel-60's cleared the roadblock and were able to move up. But the advance wasn't without cost, the toll extracted by snipers every step of the way. One such shooter, following his supervisor's advice on countering the enemy's heavy body armor by aiming for 'hips and heads' put a 0.35 Remington 'Leverevolution' round into Patrolman Hynen's right leg. The round-nosed bullet blew through his outer thigh, ripping loose the bottom straps of his drop-leg pistol holster. Only the holster's flapping around clued him into being hit. The blow, which on any other day would have seen him fallen over and screaming in the street, registered as a mild surprise. Unperturbed, he shuffled off the street and behind another house. He rested his M16 on the wall and broke out his aid kit. The wound, a carved and blown out chunk of a gouge, he packed with gauze and Qwik-Clot, then wrapped a bandage several times snugly round his leg. His holster he re-secured, and then he continued with his mission wholly non-plussed.

Now the elementary school was in their grasp as platoons of blue, and black and tan began encircling the building. A defender fired a 0.30-30 round past Patrolman Hynen's nose, striking the man next to him in the shoulder. Ordinarily, this would have knocked the man over. Instead, joining Hynen in cover, yet again, the trooper glanced at the ragged, bleeding breach in his body and grinned at Hynen.

"Heh. Lookit that."

"You've been shot, Max."

"Well...ain't that a sumbitch."

"It hurt at all?"

"Not really. Itches something fierce."

"We can fix that." Hynen turned Max to open the man's med kit. "Hold still, wouldja?" He cleaned up, packed, patched, and wrapped the wound then patted his patient on his good shoulder. "All set."

"That all?" Max looked at his shoulder again, now neatly wrapped with gauze. "Hmm! I suppose I don't get a lollipop for this doctor visit. Off we go then!" And the pair continued onward as if they had merely stopped for a five-minute smoke break.

Inside the school the defenders were realizing they had missed their chance to slip away. They had not counted on the police and mercs simply ignoring their gunfire. So caught up in the horror of this new development, the orders to retreat had not been given and now they were trapped. As things stood, unless a militiaman hit his target in the head, throat, hips, or kneecap, or pumped the target sufficiently with lead, the wounded man would continue advancing forward. Usually to the first solid cover to address any wounds, but he would reemerge as soon as field aid was performed and resume advancing. Now troopers had crossed the lawns and parking lots, right up to the school's brick walls. They were eagerly ready to begin what they excelled at: breaching and clearing with prejudice. The school now was as good as taken.

. . .

"Crockett to Sierra-Actual." Will Crocker had found a ladder onto the roof of the YMCA. While waiting for a radio response, he double-checked the scope on his Barrett M82A1. There was no mistaking what, and who, he was seeing. Something Tommy Carson and Mr. Solomon had briefed him at length on. Something they called a Man in Black.

"Go ahead Crockett." Tommy hailed.

"Have sighted You-Know-What. Advise."

"Do you have a shot?"

"Yeah..." Crocker said, adding 'I think, I hope' to himself.

"Take it."

"Engaging." Crocker knew his gun and knew precisely where it would hit at any range and any condition; rain, snow, hail, Hell or high water. What he didn't know was the reputation of Men in Black for utterly disregarding the laws of physics and probability and making their opponents cry 'Oh that's BULL-SHIT' on a maddening frequency. And Will Crocker was no exception as he took aim at The Man in Black; brazenly standing up in the back of an uncovered M939 truck filled with D.R.S. An irresponsibly tempting target.

As Crocker lined up and began his trigger pull, The Man concluded his passing inspection of the destroyed Dairy Queen. He took note of the tell-tale scratches of steel tracks in the pavement and directed his gaze elsewhere. Catching his eye was the YMCA, one of their objectives for the day; breaching above the treetops. The Man then entertained two thoughts. First, how well built the structure was and his appreciation of the clean, precise stone lines and the magnificent view of the area its rooftop veranda surely offered. Second, how great the odds were that its rooftop was occupied by a sniper. And if it was indeed occupied, that sniper would have picked up The Man at the turn at the bottom of the hill, next to Cold Stream. And further, if the sniper were half competent, he would be firing right...about...NOW. As Crocker's rifle fired, The Man stepped six inches to his left. Fearing needlessly this would not be enough, The Man tapped his access to the flowing N.O. just in time to see a bullet the size of his thumb pass through the space his head had been a mere blink ago. Back to real time, the bullet hit the truck's engine behind him. A geyser of radiator coolant erupted from the blown component. And as his truck continued further before stopping, The Man was now safely out of the sniper's line of sight. Yet again, seeming by magic, a Man in Black had evaded certain death.

"Sierra-Actual, target has somehow..." Crocker struggled to keep his frustration in check. "Escaped. No damage."

"Don't feel bad, Crockett. They have a habit of doing that. Get out of the area, stand-by on this line for re-tasking." As Solomon took over to redirect Crocker, Tommy switched channels. "Canti, are you and yours online?"

"Ready to deploy." A robotic voice box responded in the affirmative.

"He's at Cold Stream Dam. Hit 'em with their own medicine."

. . .


Working from home, while it pulverized my creativity, did give me a lot of time to watch this youtube channel run by a guy who does these "tank tour" videos, where he walks around the outside of it first, pointing out all the various and sundry, and then climbs inside and does the same with each crew position and some of the history behind the tank. Really cool stuff, and I think I've watched all of his videos...can you tell? I also played a lot of War Thunder, probably TOO much. I think it may have had an effect on me and the story...nah, couldn't be...
Since it has been so long, I was unsure how dropping us back into the fighting would pan out. It's like picking up a video game you haven't touched in over six months, having forgotten all the controls and combos, and upon booting up, find your last save was right in the middle of a boss battle; overwhelming to underscore the feeling. I pray that even with the passing of time, I haven't lost my touch and this chapter was up to your standards of previous installments. I am trying to get myself into a habit of daily writing, for just an hour, instead of putting it off for, at the risk of sounding disgustingly pretentious "when inspiration strikes me". There is another chapter after this to be sure, but the one after THAT is already begun and not long in arriving. If you have stuck with me this far for this long, you have the patience of a saint. Thank you, so very much.