The horizon began to quiver in the distance, and lightning streaked across the granite sky in jagged arcs. A wall of thick dark clouds hung low on the unsettling skyline. Light droplets of rain pattered against the ground and dripped down the green leaves of the giant trees, filling an expansive, secluded forest deep in Kazakhstan. Black smoke permeated from the devastation below, rising into the dark sky and creating a thick and choking barrier.
In an open field, a few hundred meters away from a cluster of hilltops, were the burning corpses of steel beasts torn apart and mutilated by armor-piercing explosive shells. The ground was littered with petrol, craters, and chunks of metal haphazardly scattered around in all directions. The motionless remains of a Panzer IV shrieked loudly as a raging inferno blazed from its hull and out its turret ring, and it spewed fire and shrapnel all around as its ammunition continued cooking off. The tank's turret had been cut from its body and embedded in the ground over twenty meters away. As the rain began to pick up and soften the torn-up soil and turn dirt into mud, the behemoth slowly began to settle and sink deeper into the ground as it continued to burn. The screaming of cooking-off ammunition slowly died and was replaced with the whining hiss of raindrops sizzling against the simmering inferno.
The Panzer IV was not alone in the field. The ruined area, which had become its final resting place, had become a tank graveyard. Dense foliage was uprooted, torn apart, shattered, and brutalized as many disabled or outright destroyed armored vehicles littered the area. They were not just the muddy field but spread throughout the forest and plains all around the central hilltop, where a large radio tower stood with pitch-black screens attached and sirens wailing ominously. The charred remains of a KV-1 punched with holes in its turret were one of few tanks that had caught fire and, with its death, began polluting the area with oppressive black smoke that choked the sky and illuminated the field. As hellfire raged, the brewing storm did little to quell the inferno scorching the earth. Even as ash and orange embers fell from above, it was nothing short of a miracle that no part of the surrounding forest had caught fire. Still, the inferno raged among the graveyard of tanks, filled with vehicles of the German Wehrmacht and Soviet Army from the interwar and Second World War periods.
Over fifteen individual tanks and their respective crews had fallen in this field, one of which had witnessed one of the closest armored engagements in recent history. The ground was slick with rain, rivers of gasoline, and streams of crimson blood and ichor. The bodies of many of the vehicle crewmembers were scattered near the surrounding tree line or strewn across the field. Most had been caught up in the crossfire as they tried to abandon their vehicles when they were disabled, with many being gunned down by coaxial machine guns or reduced to fine rest mist from the occasional high-explosive shell. Those whose corpses remain in their tanks, killed by spalls and shrapnel from penetrating hits, would be left to rot and sink in their metal coffins whose insides were destroyed and splattered with gore. Two boys wearing German and Soviet tanker uniforms stood out amongst the rest, their bodies pale and cold and their arms stretched out to one another in desperation. The young men, if you could even call them that, looked no older than sixteen. The Soviet boy's face was contorted in agony while the German was face down, sinking in the mud.
The sounds of growling engines and the rumbling of the ground filled the air, adding to the cacophony of the crackling hellfire and thundering storm which groaned overhead in the dark sky. The twisting of wood, the snapping of trees, and the rustling of foliage emanated from the treeline where three Soviet tanks emerged. Two early model T-34s rode the flank of a larger beast that slowly maneuvered onto the scene of devastation at the armored graveyard before breaking off and maneuvering through the mess of destroyed vehicles. Their rubber treads dug into the mud as they slowly drove through the area, turrets facing opposite directions as their crews searched for something. The tanks could not avoid a few of the strewn corpses, and 30 tons of steel rolled over them, the sound of crunching bone inaudible over the growl of the engines.
The heavier tank escorted by the T-34s emerged through a cloud of smoke, revealing itself to the cameras as an IS-3. Compared to the corpses of various kinds of Panzer III and IVs that predominately filled the armored graveyard, it seemed like an unstoppable monster. Its homogenous turret and extremely thick armor on all sides made it almost impenetrable from most angles by all the tanks that entered the match on both sides.
As the Soviet tanks lumbered through the graveyard carefully, a bush to their left flank rustled, and the muzzle brake of a 7.5cm KwK 40 shifted through the foliage. Emerging slowly and ever so slightly out of the bush so that its gunner would have a clear line of sight was a Sturmgeschütze III G variant. Lining the central triangle of its Zeiss optics on the side armor of the closest T-34, the gunner of the StuG exhaled slowly and rotated the gun to the left, just leading the enemy tank. The vehicle was cramped and hot, and his clammy palms wrapped around the handle of his traverse wheel, and his finger twitched as it rested over the firing trigger. Sweat dripped down his chin, and when he opened his mouth, he stuttered as he spoke.
"Fertig. (Ready.)" The gunner told his commander, who sat right behind him.
The commander, who had significantly more years in age on his gunner, peered through his periscope and grimaced. He was curious if he and his crew were the last ones alive on their team, but the fact remained that they needed to take out these three tanks if they wanted to live another day and find the answer to that question. They needed to take out these T-34s and tactically retreat before engaging the IS-3 on their terms. The ambush was a considerable risk, but it needed to happen to turn this match around. As the loader prepared another shell from the ready rack, he muttered a silent prayer.
Only the engine rumbling could be heard inside the casemate tank for a few quiet moments before the commander broke the audible silence. "Feuer! (Fire!)"
Depressing the trigger, the firing pin struck the shell's primer in the cannon, causing the breach to rocket back against the recoil guard as the 7.5cm cannon roared to life. A single Panzergranate 39 APCBC shell sped forward with a cry and impacted the side of the Soviet tank right under its turret. The T-34's crew heard the ear-piercing shriek of screeching metal alongside a loud bang that shook the vehicle as the shell exploded. The intense, fiery blast was followed by pieces of spall and shrapnel filling the crew compartment of the T-34.
Nobody in the tank had a chance to react. The gunner's body was mutilated and ripped from the abdomen, and shrapnel embedded itself in the loader and commander, painting the steel walls red with blood. The driver's body soaked up most of the shrapnel, eviscerated while a few stray pieces dug into the assistant driver. The initial shock of the concussive blast concussed the radio operator, but as his vehicle slowly stopped after veering off-course, and pain started to flare in his body, he realized what had happened. Grabbing his torn open side, the boy felt slick crimson blood coat his hand, and his wound burned excruciatingly. Turning his head, he gazed at the carnage in his tank and gasped sharply, his mouth quivering as he struggled to form words. Leaning back in his seat and clutching his wound that poured blood, he squeezed his eyes shut and screamed.
On the outside, the other T-34 had immediately begun to rotate its turret to face the direction where the shell had come. The StuG had pushed up too far, and the commander could spot it through one of his vision ports and instructed his radioman to report the tank's position to the IS-3 and other nearby vehicles. As the tank increased its throttle and sped up around the hull of a destroyed Panzer III, the crew inside the StuG was already preparing for the next shot, albeit they were acting much more frantic now.
"TREFFER! NOCHMALS JUNGS! (HIT! AGAIN BOYS!)" Reported the commander as the hull rotated so the T-34 would stay within the traverse range of the cannon. The loader frantically pulled another 7.5cm shell from the ready rack after opening the breach, his hands shaking as he shoved it into the breach and closed its wedge-shaped block.
"GELADEN! (LOADED!)" Shouted the loader.
"FEUER!"
The cannon roared again, and the pressure produced from its muzzle brake caused nearby branches and foliage to snap and blow away. The shell slammed at an awkward angle against the rotating turret of the maneuvering T-34, causing it to ricochet and causing no more damage to its crew than a ringing sensation in their ears from the sound of the impact. The StuG gunner hitched a breath as he watched the T-34's gun turn to him through his optics and shook his head. He turned back to the commander and dreadfully mouthed an apology as the man shouted commands through their intercom system.
"Fahrer, rückwärts jetzt! Rückwärts! (Driver, reverse now! Reverse!)"
The driver shifted gears and slammed on the pedal, pulling his steering levers back with him as he threw his whole body into the effort. The German tank destroyer barely made it halfway before the T-34 fired its cannon and sent a 76mm shell straight above the driver's viewport of the StuG. Suddenly, the tank lurched to a stop as the driver died on impact. The rest of the StuG's crew were filled with shrapnel, and the loader screamed as he felt a hot fragment hit his arm, and he dropped to the floor. The commander was lucky that his driver and gunner, who sat vertically in front of him, absorbed most of the shrapnel and dampened the blast, saving him from instant death. However, he found his chest and abdomen struck by a few stray pieces and lurched back against the hull, gasping for breath. Turning slowly to face his loader as he clutched his belly, he stared at his surviving crewmate with a blood-splattered visage.
"Fuck...fuck!" He choked as blood started to pool in his lungs and seep through his torn panzer uniform. The loader stared at his commander with tear-filled wide eyes as he shakily tried to bandage his torn open and fractured arm. His shaking increased the more the commander began to wail and bang his head against the back of the hull. "FUCK FUCK FU—!"
"Fuck!" High in the mountains surrounding the valley, a building a few kilometers away from the forest stood. It was massive, with multiple helipads and a large square-like foundation on which the multi-stored building lay. It was painted black, its tinted windows hid whatever elegant decor was inside, and even its massive balconies seemed to have a dark shadow cast over them to hide whoever may be lurking on them. Within the mansion-like abode, masked workers in pressed suits moved through what appeared to be a social gathering of wealthy elites. The party was complete with luxury foods, the finest alcohol, and special services should they be requested. Within a central room, a massive flat-screen television sat adjacent to a line of tall windows that offered a great view of the mountains and the darkening sky outside as the storm continued to brew. The flatscreen displayed a live feed of the graveyard of tanks from a bird's eye view, occasionally switching to different perspectives captured by other drones and camera feeds. Smaller flatscreens snapped from feed to feed, showing multiple perspectives simultaneously for the crowd to enjoy.
In the room were sets of luscious furniture separated so the guests could comfortably sit with others in a group or by their lonesome as they watched the screen. From these little islands in the room, businessmen, politicians, philanthropists, and other wealthy individuals were served whatever they desired as they enjoyed the show before their eyes. Next to the screen was a board that counted financial wagers some attendants took against one another. Dressed as if they were attending a masquerade, their faces and identities were hidden like the servants. As the live video displayed the StuG III being disabled by the T-34, a middle-aged man wearing a three-piece suit and adorning many rings curled his hand into a fist and slammed the side of his futon's armrest.
"God dammit." He cursed, his voice tainted with an American accent. "I had 200,000 dollars on that damn tank surviving this match."
"On the casemate?" Questioned another man sipping on a glass of gin before gently setting it down on a silver platter held by a servant standing rigidly at attention next to his seat. "What made you bet on them of all of the German crews present? Thinking they would perform as well as they did in the matches leading up to this one?"
"Of course! Not to mention they had one of the better vehicles on their team." Explained the irritated American. He motioned to the screen, which continued to follow the victorious T-34. "But what a pathetic lineup they had. Seriously, aren't these guys German? Where are those Tigers, Panthers, and other heavy tanks?"
"You expect those krauts to be fielding the heaviest tanks of the war? Panzer threes and fours made up most of their armored forces during the war. Not to mention this team was only levied around six months ago. They don't have the funds or the experience for such vehicles."
"Considering all the heavy tanks Germany's Panzerkraft teams could field, I was expecting at least one in this year's wargames. Are there really none that could have been requisitioned for their team, or is their advocate just a cheapskate?"
"Who knows." Shrugged the second man as he reached for another glass of liquor on the platter, which another servant had freshly poured. He downed it and pursed his lips before smacking. "Mmm... anyways, you still have to admit, those boys certainly have done well with what they've been given. A shame most of them won't make it out of this match."
A small chorus of replies from many of the others lounging in the room agreed with the man. The organizers, advocates, and officials saw the German team as nothing more than fodder to fill a slot in this year's tournament. It took a lot of work to procure crew members for their team. The German branch of the organization that set up the wargames had significant trouble convincing enough juveniles and young men in prison to take up a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Therefore, they had to take extra time to seek out orphans and abuse the Child Protective Service agencies to fill the roster. These issues put them far behind the other national teams who had already begun training and acquiring armored vehicles. Such factors resulted in the team being given just above the bare minimum number of vehicles provided only the scraps of old Panzer IIs, IIIs, and IVs from the varying Panzerkraft practicing schools in Germany. They made it as far as the championship match meant something spectacular.
"You know," the German-accented voice of an older woman piped up, "I was originally going to allocate them a Panther, but it was swiped from under me. Bought alongside a few other assets by the Sensha-Dō Federation. Such a shame."
There was a collective groan following her statement. On the live video feed, a Panzer-II had taken multiple shells in a single volley, igniting its ammunition which caused plumes of smoke and crackling fire to spew from the barrel before its turret exploded.
"How tragic. It appears the Russian team will pull through this year."
The frame of a lanky Russian oligarch who sat in the front row shook with delight as he chuckled, the statement bringing him joy. Finishing a scoop of caviar, he rotated to face the group of American and German billionaires sitting behind him. "Expect nothing less. With how mismatched lineups are, I would be surprised if the Germans could take out even half of our team."
"You saying those T-34s are any better than those Panzers?"
"Oh, now he's done it." Said an English woman who shook her head in exasperation. She could not attend one bloodsport match without listening to at least a few of the others delve into arguments about tanks. Most of those men have never spent time in the military or extensively researched the war and its armored vehicles. It was always a pain to listen to half-truths and biased talking points regarding other nations' tanks. As a fair portion of the spectators present began to devolve into a heated argument on whether the German or Russian team would secure victory this year, a few separated themselves and continued placing their attention on the screen. The counter monitoring each tank and crew above the screen still noted nine Soviet tanks and two German tanks left, with just under twenty casualties on the Soviet team and a staggering sixty-two on the German team.
Averting their eyes from the childish argument near them, and seated in the far right corner of the lounge on a cozy armchair, was a woman of Asian origin attending the match. Officials from most large nations' respective Tankery organizations secretly involved themselves with highly illegal bloodsports, and their connections and wealth kept them out of trouble. These bloodsports were highly secretive, and those who attempted to reveal the criminal sport to the public always turned up dead or missing.
Dark eyes behind a bear-like mask gazed at the screen and displayed a face of disgust at the events the match had taken, even more so when they began reading recaps about the past games leading up to the final this year. Reaching for a glass of red wine on a small table nearby, the woman sipped on the blood-red drink as she continued to read all of the public information about the German national team in the pamphlets that had passed out at the entrance.
The German team consisted of twelve tanks, two casemate tank destroyers, and one armored car crewed by sixty-six boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two. Going into the final match, they had lost over fifty percent of their team, having beaten the Italians, Brazilians, and Swedes before making it to this match. Most of their vehicles consisted of short-barreled Panzer IVs, late Panzer III variants with the 5cm KwK 38 L/42, a few Panzer IIs, two StuG IIIs, and a single Sdkfz. 234/2 Puma. It was a decent group of tanks but would undoubtedly face issues dealing with heavily armed and armored opponents like much of the Russian team. Turning her gaze from the pamphlet, she watched as the screen shifted from a single Panzer III L maneuvering through the thick forests where the Soviet tank destroyers were last sighted to the graveyard of vehicles once more. The IS-3 and T-34 were in the process of leaving and heading back down the slope. To the untrained eye, one would believe all was still and silent in the graveyard, filled with the ruined bodies of tanks and dead bodies. However, she immediately noticed the Puma's turret slowly turning as it played dead behind a disabled KV-2.
She watched closely as the armored car's 5cm gun lined up with the engine block of the T-34 just a hundred meters away. Was the German team going to knock out another tank? How would the IS-3 respond? The lounge grew quiet once more, and the spectators expected the loud boom of the cannon to ring out any moment now. However, it did not come as both Soviet tanks continued down the slope and out of the Puma's sight. Light chatter between spectators began as many expressed their opinions on what had just occurred. Some even criticized the German crew of the Puma for not taking the shot.
Finishing her glass of wine, the Japanese woman set the empty glass back down on a small tray and motioned for a servant holding a bottle to come to refill it. The well-dressed man made his way over and filled the glass, his hands shaking as he did so. Before he could retreat wordlessly back to the back of the room, the woman spoke up in English.
"Stay put."
"Yes, ma'am." Replied a shaky voice with an eastern European accent.
The woman opened the pamphlet, which was more like a small book, in her lap and began flipping to the roster of the German team. Just like her own, the real identities of the crew members were hidden to keep anyone from recognizing them or their families - if they had one. The Sdkfz. 324/2 had a whole crew of four boys, all between the ages of fourteen to sixteen. Unlike the Panzer III L, which had the highest number of kills for the German team, the Puma crew had yet to destroy a single tank yet in the tournament. They may not have it in them to destroy an enemy vehicle, but they contributed to the team in other ways. The vehicle was an armored car designed for reconnaissance; they may be filling that role. The Japanese woman couldn't find it in herself to blame the crew for doing such a thing. They were likely forced into this bloodsport and didn't want to kill.
Taking another sip from the wine glass, the woman sighed as she turned her attention back to the screen, which followed the Puma as it zipped into the tree line and disappeared. The screen then changed perspectives to another drone which followed a couple of SU-85s and a single SU-100 who were relocating to a new position on a hill that could overlook a massive open field that cut the thick forests around the base of the mountain range. Suddenly, a 5cm shell slammed into the side of the SU-100 and penetrated it, rupturing a gas tank and igniting a fire in its engine. Seconds later, another round struck the side of the vehicle right as the commander opened his copula and tried climbing out to avoid the flames that licked his uniform. The shrapnel caused by the second explosion caused his body to spasm in pain before falling back into the hull, where the fire began to rage. The driver's hatch was pushed open, and the driver crawled out of the tank, screaming and frantically trying to quell the fire on his back. He tore off his blouse and began rolling on the ground, extinguishing the flames but not before his back received terrible burns.
Both SU-85s rotated their hulls to face the area of the forest where the shell had come from, but even the angled frontal armor of the SU-85 was not enough to stop a 5cm armor-piercing shell at less than 100 meters. Seconds later, one was knocked out by a shell penetrating right above its driver's hatch and tearing into the driver and gunner. The Panzer III was spotted in the forest as it began to move from its firing position. The last remaining SU-85 reversed and fired at the enemy tank, but the shell exploded as it slammed into a thick tree and blew splinters and shrapnel everywhere. Less than thirty seconds later, another 5cm shell slammed into the side of the tank destroyer's engine block, disabling it. For only a moment, the drones flying overheard could track the Panzer III as it zipped over a small patch of open grass before it disappeared into the woods. With only two German vehicles remaining against what was now six Soviets, the German team effectively began resorting to hit-and-run tactics; at least, the Panzer III was. Nothing could be said about the Puma as no one knew what its crew was doing.
Putting down her pamphlet, the Japanese woman reached into a pocket of her black jodhpurs to retrieve a notebook and pen, for which she took a quick note before taking another sip of her wine. As she was writing, heels clicking against the carpet-covered granite and obsidian floor was heard as someone approached. "What a surprise to see you here." The voice of a British woman said.
A pause in writing. The click of a pen before being slipped back into the grooves of the notebook, which was calmly placed back into a suit pocket. The Japanese woman turned to see a woman with luscious blonde hair wearing a strapless white dress covered with expensive jewelry. Her face was covered by a rabbit mask that hid mischievous green eyes.
She narrowed her eyes slightly and asked, "Do I know you?"
The woman smiled and shook her head. "No, you don't. Not everyone in the royal family is as well known as Liz, Harry, and the others. That's a good thing." The woman wrapped one foot around the leg of a cushioned seat before pulling it forward and taking a seat adjacent to the Japanese guest. "But I know you, Mrs. Nishizumi. So, tell me...why would you, of all people, come to watch an armored bloodsport? I was under the impression you don't believe men should be practicing...what do you call it? Ah, yes, Sensha-Dō."
The woman behind the bear mask was revealed to be Shiho Nishizumi, the Sensha-Dō Federation's Pro-League Committee chairperson and the Kuromorimine Girls' Academy superintendent. The infamous master of the Nishizumi style and arguably one of the best tank commanders to have participated in Sensha-Dō and the various world tournaments between other nations' iterations of the art. She was also a strong advocate of keeping Sensha-Dō a female-only martial art and actively discriminated against male participation successfully in Japan and most other nations that had such a sport. But here she was, watching men pervert the martial art she believed was sacred in the worst way imaginable.
"I still believe men do not have a place in Sensha-Dō for many reasons," Shiho stated coldly and turned to face the woman sitting adjacent to her and set her glass down.
Glancing at the deep red liquid, the British royal turned to the servant next to her and produced a sickly sweet smile. "Do you mind getting me a glass as well? And do hurry...I hate waiting."
The servant held the wine bottle close to him and nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am!"
He quickly shuffled his way past their seats and walked past the wooden table, beelining straight for the long bar at the far end of the room. The two women watched as the man fumbled slightly as he bumped past another servant and almost spilled wine from the bottle he held over his tuxedo. After grabbing a pristine glass the bartender grabbed for him, he shuffled his way out and returned to the two of them. Popping up another small table, the man placed the glass beside the British royal and poured her a glass. After he was finished, the blonde woman picked up her glass and took a sip.
"So...why is that exactly? Why is the world so split about seeing men participate in tankery?" Questioned the woman.
"Sensha-Dō is a sacred martial art meant for young women to train their minds and bodies for a successful future. Grow their minds, spirit, and bodies to become good citizens, and necessarily the characteristics of good wives and mothers. It takes something meant for destruction and war and turns it into an art of beauty and skill. Take a look at the screen in front of us right now." Shiho explained with disdain as she motioned toward the screen, which flickered between different live feeds from cameras mounted on drones that flew over the landscape where the match was being held. Burnt-out and destroyed tanks littered the landscape and the corpses of boys as young as fourteen who had bled out from their wounds while escaping their vehicles or were cut down by machine-gun fire. It was visceral and disgusting, and the fact that they were dressed as their ancestors from the Second World War, as if they were forced into a violent reenactment of history for entertainment, was terrible.
"Men are violent. It's why they are the ones who fight our wars and commit atrocities for their beliefs. This display merely makes a mockery of the art of Sensha-Dō. Should other national organizations allow Co-Ed participation, the art would devolve so a state of pure violence and ruin its intended purpose."
"You make a compelling argument…but you must admit it is quite entertaining. I never knew armored warfare could be so thrilling to watch, much less participate in! I'm sure some of your colleagues feel the same."
Shiho's mouth curled into a frown, and she shot a cold glare at the woman sitting next to her. Then her gaze shifted to the side where she saw a few people high in the Sensha-Dō Federation sitting together and enjoying the show, which was being presented to them all. At the same time, they dined lavishly on luxury foods and alcohol. One particular official from MEXT brought a sour taste to her mouth that not even the wine could wash out. Much of the world's tankery organizations were funded by wealthy investors, and just like governments, large businesses, and cinema industries, they were prone to heavy corruption. The wealthy elite were often the worst human beings, disconnected from average society and uncaring for anything but their wealth and whatever made them happy. Sure, there were diamonds in the rough, but those were few and far between. The armored bloodsport and exclusive society that funded and enjoyed it was a testament to such truth. Shiho was growing more disgusted by the minute speaking with this supposed member of British royalty.
"Is this all a game to you?" Asked the mistress of the Nishizumi fortune coldly. The woman in question turned her attention from the screen and faced Shiho with a smile that hid her confusion. She didn't reply immediately, instead holding up her empty wine glass and urging the servant unwillingly stuck next to the two of them to refill it for her. "You're watching juveniles kill each other like animals, and for what? Lowered prison sentences? A large sum of money? The mere opportunity to do something exciting in their lives? This is repulsive."
"Mmm...you mean we're watching a bunch of orphans and criminals kill each other." The young woman mirthlessly chuckled as she drank from her glass again. "They weren't going to do anything important in their lives anyway. Why worry about the small things when you can just enjoy your own life? Besides, you continue to watch, do you not? I can see you taking notes. I know you want to obtain the scraps of those German vehicles for your own school's benefit like a vulture preying on the dead. This isn't the first you've shown up to these events, nor will it be the last, will it, Mrs. Nishizumi?"
Shiho bit her lip as he restrained herself from showing too much emotion. Her face scrunched up as anger swelled within, but she could not act. Not here, at least, and especially not against someone of another country's royal family, even if she was a privileged brat. Instead, she scowled disapprovingly at the statements the woman made. However, as much as she would like to dispute their claims, she could not. They were absolutely true. Although she hated the fact it existed, she had been making plans to procure whatever German vehicles were left from the tournament for scrap to make a profit so she could procure more light tanks for Kuromorimine's arsenal. She was exploiting these boys just as much as everyone else.
But she wouldn't ever admit that.
"Don't you have something better to do than keep up this conversation with me?" Shiho questioned with an agitated tone.
"Hmm...?" The woman placed her empty glass of wine on the small table next to her and let her head roll as she turned her attention to Shiho and then the servant standing behind her, clutching the almost empty bottle of wine in his white-gloved hands. A coy smile graced her lips as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a black card with pink writing. The servant, who gazed down at the woman through his peripheral vision, tensed up once he saw what she had pulled out. "I have someone better to do." She slurred.
Shiho watched as the woman pushed herself onto her feet and leaned against the servant, who backed up slightly before his back hit the wall. Slowly slipping the card into his blazer's pocket, she spoke. "Why don't you take that mask of yours off? It's hiding such a nice face, I'm sure."
She was clearly tipsy, her face flushed and breath smelling strongly of more than red wine. As she ran her hands on the side of the servant's face and felt his strong jawline, she pressed closer to the shorter man. He set down the bottle and brought a hand up to the back of his head to ensure his mask stayed on.
"Please don't." He kept his mask pressed firmly onto his face, unwilling to let the royal woman take it off in public. The woman only chuckled, latched onto his wrists with her hands, and pulled him away from the wall. "Then why don't you take me where I can cash this card in? I'm sure this lady won't mind having to pour her drinks herself."
The man turned to Shiho, who shot the two a glare. Realizing his defeat and that he would not get any help to escape the unfortunate situation, he relented and have into the blonde woman's advance. Sighing deeply, he tugged the tipsy royal and began leading her out of the lounging area, finally giving Shiho the privacy she enjoyed before the British royal invaded her space. After watching them disappear out the double doors, Shiho turned her attention back to the screen where the battle continued.
A Panzer III sped through the forest, weaving through trees as fast as possible while high-explosive shells screamed overhead and tore the landscape. Inside the tank, the crew of five was focused on their jobs, with the commander barely poking out of his turret just enough so he could see over the cupola directly behind him. He squeezed his throat mic and ordered the driver to turn sharply in one direction to avoid 76.2mm shells of T-34s tracking his tank down. Inside the tank, the engine roaring and pit-patting of the rain was loud and obnoxious, and the driver's constant weaving started making the loader sick. As he held a shell in his hand, taken from the ready rack, he pressed himself against the hull so he wouldn't fall over and get more nauseous.
He wished the loader's position had a seat at times like these.
"Eiche hier Wiesel, Eich hier Wiesel, kommen! (Oak, this is Weasel, Oak, this is Weasel, come in!)" The radio came to life through the operator's headset, and he scrambled to respond as a shell scraped the side of his tank.
"Eiche, empfängt! Gott sei dank Ihr seid in Ordnung! (Oak, receiving! Thank god you guys are alright!)" Laughed the radioman as he spoke to the Sdkfz. 234/2 on the other end of the line.
"Wir haben zwei feindliche panzers unterwegs durch der wald! Position: Dora-Emil 037841! IS-2 und T-34! (We have two enemy tanks on the way through the forest! Position: DE 037841! IS-2 and T-34!)" The radio operator in the Panzer III unfolded his map of the match area and began scouring it for the grid position, parking it down with a pen and adding to the incredible amount of information already written on the map. He relayed the message to everyone else in the tank, and a slew of cursing exited most of their mouths.
"Verstanden! Wir brauchen eure Hilfe! Komm zu die Fabrik im Nordosten. Wir werden das Beenden, verdammt! (Understood! We need your help! Come to the factory to the northeast. We are going to end this, dammit!)"
"Eiche Verstanden, ende! (Oak understands, end!)" The radio cut off as Wiesel ended their conversation.
Suddenly, the ear-screeching noise of a shell scraping against the turret of the Panzer III reached the crew. The radioman yelped and dropped his map while bringing his hands up to his headphone-covered ears. The commander dropped back into the hull and slammed his hatch shut, his heart pounding as that last shell had come too close for comfort. He peered through his vision ports and saw that the forest was about to end, and they would soon be met with the factory.
!Vollgas voraus! Geh in diese verfluchten Fabrik! (Full speed ahead! Get in that fucking factory!)"
The Panzer III L shot through the treeline and sharply turned left and right as it closed the three-hundred meters of open ground between the forest and the factory's walls. There was a massive hole in the crumbling brick wall ahead, and the tank barely threaded the needle as they shot into the factory grounds and took the first left into a massive warehouse. Following closely behind the Panzer III were three T-34s who fired into the wall to blow sizable holes in it before barreling through the crumbled brick and clouds of dust. As soon as the first T-34 turned the corner, a 5cm shell slammed into its frontal armor, ricocheting and spiraling into the sky. Two T-34s turned to the massive warehouse's garage doors, and their gunners stared into the darkness. Then there was a fiery flash in the darkness, and one T-34 took a 5cm shell to its cheek, which penetrated. The tank slowly began to reverse as the two other T-34s fired at the flash in the darkness. The boxy shape of the Panzer III was illuminated for a moment by the flash of light from the explosions in the warehouse, which impacted thick boxes and blew splinters and thick smoke everywhere.
As both T-34s were reloading, the Panzer III sped forward and right between both tanks, with its turret turning ninety degrees to the right. At nearly point-blank, another shell was pumped into the side of a T-34 and obliterated its engine, causing a fire to start. Its crew, rightfully, threw their hatches open and began to abandon the tank as the flames continued to burn and would no doubt spread if no actions were taken to stop it. The last T-34 spun around and fired at the retreating Panzer III, shearing off its right track and causing the vehicle to turn abruptly and slam into a stone wall.
As the crew from the bailed-out T-34 began using fire extinguishers to quell the inferno devouring their tank, and the damaged T-34 continued to pull back out of the factory, the third one lined up another shot on the flat side of the German tank. Inside Eiche, the crew was slightly beaten up. The driver was knocked out, his face slamming his periscope and pouring blood from a large gash, and the loader had slipped and slammed his shoulder blade against the gun breach and spasmed in pain. The commander frantically screamed as the gunner rotated his turret in vain to try and get a shot off on the T-34 before it could fire into their tank.
But it wasn't fast enough.
Kthoom!
The sound of a cannon firing reverberated throughout the factory and the subsequent detonation of a tank as its remaining ammunition exploded. The fireball that filled the space between two large warehouses in the massive factory complex filled the air with soot and smoke, and the silhouette of a turret blown up into the air was captured by one of the overheard drones. The pressure wave from the explosion even caused the disembarked soviet crewmen from the burning T-34 to hit the ground near their ruined vehicle.
Much to the surprise of the crew of the Panzer III, it wasn't their tank that was hit, and they weren't dead. The commander of the Eiche team slowly opened his eyes, blinked, and realized what had happened. He slowly popped out of the hatch of his immobilized panzer and stared in awe at the burning corpse of the T-34/76 less than fifty meters away. Even the Russian crew who bailed out of their damaged T-34 stared on in shock. Suddenly, a Tatra V12 diesel engine roaring was heard, and the crew of Russian boys turned and saw the Sdkfz. 234/2 Puma barreling towards them after speeding into the factory.
"Chyort, ubiraysya otsyuda! (Shit, get out of here!)" Screamed the commander of the T-34, who gripped a PPS-43. He whole heartily expected the armored car racing towards them to start firing its coaxial MG-34 and mow them down just as his team had done to the Germans. He pushed his crewmen away, most of which seemed younger than him, and urged them to run and hide throughout the factory. At the same time, he attempted to draw the attention of the Puma and fired his submachine gun at it in a desperate attempt at self-sacrifice. However, the Puma drifted past and around the corner instead of lighting him up or hitting him. It sped forward and popped three of its six smoke grenades from its turret-mounted launcher, giving the vehicle and the Panzer III some concealment.
As the thick smoke clouded the street between the large brick buildings, the loader's hatch of the Puma flipped open, and a teenage boy in dirty panzer wraps quickly crawled out, rolling off the side of the vehicle and hitting the ground on his hands and knees. The boy ran to the Panzer III and climbed on its side, banging on the gunner's side hatch.
"Aufmachen Leute! Komm schon! (Open up guys! Come on!)" The German boy exclaimed as he pounded on the hatch relentlessly. Suddenly, the hatch was swung open, causing the boy on the tank's exterior to move aside.
"Liske ist bewusstlos, wir müssen raus hier! (Liske is unconscious, we have to get out of here!)" The gunner explained as he began crawling out of the hatch and dropped to the ground beside the Panzer III. The commander and loader's hatches opened up simultaneously, and the two quickly exited their vehicle, both drenched in sweat and shaking lightly.
"Hey, hilf mir verdammt! (Hey, help me dammit!)" Another voice called out from within the confines of the tank cried out. The driver of the Panzer III, Liske, was dragged up into the turret by the radio operator, but the teenage boy struggled to move him quickly. A trail of blood ran down Liske's face, originating from a gas on his forehead that he obtained when the tank slammed into the brick wall.
"Ich hab ihn. (I got him.)" The crewman from the Puma said as he reached through the gunner's side hatch and slid his arms under Liske's armpits. Together, the two boys pulled the unconscious driver out of the tank, and the rest of the crew helped carry him so Liske's body wouldn't hit the ground.
"Was tun wir jetzt? (What do we do now?)" Asked the loader as he rubbed his gloved hands anxiously while the smoke dissipated around them. Before anyone could answer, the thunderous rumble of a large diesel engine echoed through the factory, and the ground began to rumble.
"Wir rennen! (We run!)" The oldest in the group, the nineteen-year-old commander of the Panzer III, exclaimed before shooting off in the opposite direction with Liske still in his arms. His crew followed suit. He turned to the boy from the Puma, who was climbing back into the armored vehicle. "Stirbt nicht, Wöhler! Beende das! (Don't die, Wöhler! End this!)"
"Ja, Danke!"
Wöhler slipped the hatch shut once he was seated back in the cramped turret of the .234. The commander, who also worked the gun, scratched the stubble on his face and let out a calm breath after turning his eyes to his loader. "Letzter, oder? (Last one, right?)"
"Genau…letzter. (Exactly…last one.)"
"Okay Leute, rüchwärts! (Okay guys, reverse!)"
The rear-facing driver in the four-man vehicle shifted into reverse gear, and the armored car's wheels carried it back just as the pike-nosed chassis of the Soviet team's IS-3 poked around the corner ahead. The Puma took a sharp turn left down another path as the IS-3 rounded the corner and attempted to fire a snapshot at it. The 122mm round zipped past the Puma and exploded on contact with a stone wall twenty meters back.
As the German scout car disappeared into the zig-zagged maze that was the abandoned factory, the Soviet tank pulled back onto the main road and positioned itself between two buildings. The commander threw open his hatch and climbed out of the tank, crouching on its engine deck and swaying the 12.7mm DShK machine gun side to side. In his view, a few of his surviving teammates who had abandoned their vehicles ran and took positions inside the degraded stone buildings. He held his fire even as he saw the heads of the Panzer III crew poke out from the top floor of the building far ahead to his left, not intending to use the weapon on dismounted crewmembers.
He didn't need to kill everyone on the enemy team to save his own, only knock out their vehicles. If his gunner missed another shot with the main cannon, he knew the 12.7mm armor-piercing rounds from his DShk could do the job on the lightly armored Puma instead.
The Russian boy let out a slow breath, trying to rely on his other senses other than sight to get a marker on where the last German vehicle was. However, his tank's engine was simply too loud, keeping him from being able to hear the Puma as it sped around the factory.
Leaning into the open commander's hatch, the IS-3's commander took a considerable risk and ordered, "Vyklyuchite dvigatel'! (Turn off the engine!)"
The driver acknowledged the command, and the power to the engine of the Soviet heavy tank was cut. The thunderous roar of the V-12 diesel engine simmered to a low rumble before going silent. But the sound of an engine still permeated through the factory streets, and it was close. The commander of the IS-3 hitched a breath as he heard the six-wheeled armored car roll up on his rear behind the weak stone wall that covered them.
Leaping off of the engine deck and rolling on the ground, the Russian boy narrowly avoided a few shell splinters as a 5cm panzergranate 39 zipped through the wall and slammed against the rear of the IS-3, barely penetrating and damaging the radiator and engine. Slowly, the IS-3 began to run its turret to the rear and respond to the attack, but now without the stone wall blocking their view, the gunner of the Puma lined up a better shot on what he could assume was the weakest part of the rear armor and fired again. The shell penetrated, and spall ripped into the engine and a fuel tank, igniting a small fire.
The armored beast's turret stopped turning, and the tank's hatches were thrown open, allowing the entire tank crew to evacuate the vehicle unharmed. The commander of the IS-3 watched as the Puma zipped out of sight before rounding a corner and coming to a stop a few meters away from him and his stunned crew. Most of them threw their hands up in surrender, hoping the German vehicle wouldn't open fire with its coaxial MG-34.
The gunner's hatch of the Puma was thrown open, and the commander of the German scout vehicle climbed out and sat on the turret's roof, sweat pouring down his face. He motioned for the Russian crew to put their hands down.
EEEERRRRRRRRR
A low and guttural-sounding siren went off for a few moments, signaling the end of the match. Simultaneously, all those remaining on the battlefield of battle, whether in the factory, hiding amongst the battlefield, or wounded within their tanks, all released an exasperated sigh.
"Es ist vorbei. (It's all over.)" The commander of the Puma whispered as he leaned back on the turret and pulled out a silver flask from his jacket. His clammy hands shook as he unscrewed the cap and took a swig of the bourbon.
The rain had stopped a while ago, and the thick wall of dark clouds swirling in the overcast sky was slowly leaving. No sunlight would break through, however, as it was almost dusk, and the mountain range on the west blocked the setting sun on the horizon. Efforts to clean up the battlefield were already underway. The viewing part had ended hours ago, with many of its guests taking their leave on private helicopters or luxury convoys or staying at the massive resort-like building and obtaining a pleasant night's rest.
The same could not be said about the young men who survived the violent ordeal that was the final match of the armored bloodsports tournament. Holed up in one of the old office buildings in the abandoned factory, the survivors of the German and Soviet teams were huddled up in the same room with only a few fires burning from small pits made in old barrels for warmth and light. The dead from each team were brought in by recovery teams employed by the wargames organization and laid in the corner of the building. The recovery teams didn't care to separate the bodies by the team and simply threw the corpses tucked away in black body bags where there was space.
Outside the building, on the main road that cut through the factory, tanks that could move under their power or be salvaged were towed and lined up side by side. Armed guards in balaclavas and BDUs with no identifiable markings stood by the vehicles as a work detail of some of the surviving boys cleaned out the vehicles.
As they worked, three black land rovers with no plates drove into the factory, stopping on the road adjacent to the main road that bisected it. Once halted, the doors opened to reveal a few more armed guards stepping out, accompanied by suited officials and other guests who weren't at the sport just to watch. Private collectors, Tankery school superintendents, investors in the profitable bloodsport, and such were down on the field for various reasons. Amongst the small group was the mistress of the Nishizumi style, whose steely visage hid various emotions.
As the group of businessmen and philanthropists walked down the road where the remaining salvageable vehicles of both teams were being lined up, Shiho felt a shiver down her spine as sharp glares from all sides were shot toward her group. Those who were able were put to work in shifts cleaning the interiors of the vehicles from any blood, gore, and spall to prepare them for whatever happened next. Many would be kept in the hands of the national teams' management, others would be sold to willing buyers of all kinds, and those too damaged would be sold for scrap.
What would happen to their respective crews was anyone's guess.
Shiho didn't expect anything good. Nor should she have.
"Excuse me, ma'am." A voice called out, pulling the mistress of the Nishizumi style's gaze away from the small teams working on the exteriors of the damaged tanks. A shorter woman with black hair and an iPad approached Shiho. "I was told you were interested in acquiring a few tanks. I've been instructed to assist you and help handle the process."
Shiho noticed as a few of the others in her group were approached by others wearing similar suits and holding iPads, and led away toward the row of damaged tanks. She wasn't the only one here after the scraps of the dying teams like some sort of vulture. That made her feel less guilty, if only slightly.
"Very well then. I'd like to see the German inventory."
"Certainly."
It had been less than thirty minutes since the VIPs were led down to the field. The tanks had finished being serviced by mixed groups from each team. After this, the general managers of the German and Soviet teams spoke to them in private. Once that was finished, the remaining boys were forced into two columns and led away from the abandoned building they were taking refuge from the elements. Separate teams took the body bags away, separating the deceased from their teammates and loading them onto a flatbed.
"NYET, SVOLOCH! (NO, YOU BASTARD!) Shiho was among many whose eyes turned toward the column of Eastern European boys. One with an arm wrapped up in a sling yanked on the opposite side of a black body bag with his good arm, trying to wrestle it away from one of the armed guards tasked with loading them onto the flatbed.
With enough courage to stand up to the man and help out their friend, a few others stepped in and put their hands on the bag, pulling with enough force to yank it back out of the man's hands and accidentally pulling the zipper back. The bag opened to reveal a teenage boy's pace face, his mouth drooping open and eyes barely open. Dried blood caked the front of his head, and a single entrance wound from a bullet revealed his cause of death.
Seeing this lit a fire in the group now that they understood why most of their injured teammates left on the field returned in body bags.
"Oni sobirayutsya ubit' nas! (They're going to kill us!)"
"Rasseivat'! (Scatter!)"
"Jetzt oder nie, jungs! (Now or never, boys!)"
Bang!
Shiho flinched, covering her ringing ears as a gunshot echoed through the street. The guard the boys surrounded had pulled his sidearm and fired into the crowd striking a German in the eye and causing him to drop like a marionette with its strings cut. The boy's legs crumpled, and his head bounced slightly before he fell into a growing pool of blood.
"Get the fuck back!"
Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat!
The guards had been ordered to respond to any aggression from the boys with lethal force; therefore, when the crowd surrounded one, and he killed one of the crewmen, it caused a domino effect. A hailstorm of lead filled the street, causing all hell to break loose. Those inspecting the vehicles and preparing to purchase them had dropped what they were doing and sought cover while the detained crewmen from each team scattered off in opposite directions. The armed guards shot many as they ran for their tanks, but few made it to vehicles.
When Shiho peered from behind the 234/2 she intended to buy, she was shoulder checked by one of the boys who crewed the vehicle, knocking her on her ass. She clutched her now bleeding nose, grunting in pain while four boys clambered on the vehicle and began slipping inside through its hatches.
"Entschuldigung!" Shiho ground her teeth in pain, glancing up at the boy who had rammed straight into her as he slipped into the turret of the Puma, offering a panic-filled wave. The moment she tried to stand back up, the oppressive feeling of suppression hit her as automatic gunfire started pinging against the armored car, causing her to drop back to her hands and knees and crawl away.
The woman handling the sales pitch and transaction process for her on behalf of the Wargames organization was not so lucky as a round struck her in the chest, and she fell with a pained gasp. As she hit the ground, she cried in pain. Her cries were drowned out by the roaring engines of multiple tanks, including the Puma.
The Puma rolled forward, its turret rotating and its coax firing at whatever found itself in its sights, sending a hail of 8mm Mauser rounds that tore apart some of the guards who weren't in proper cover. A T-34 and one Panzer III joined the scout car and broke off from the row of vehicles, turning sharply on the road and booking it out of the factory.
Her ears rang as the chaotic symphony of gunfire, explosions, and screaming in multiple languages turned into an irritating white noise. Still, Shiho wasn't locked in a trance or paralyzed by fear and continued to crawl away behind a Panzer II, her eyes glued to the woman who was shot next to her. One of the guards ran across the street and slid next to the wounded woman, pulling her behind cover and then performing first-aid while bullets continued to rain overhead.
Suddenly a high-explosive shell slammed into the ground further back, kicking up chunks of concrete and dust and spewing shrapnel in all directions. One of the tanks began to fight back, and its crew did not intend for anyone to leave the area alive. A black SUV loaded with a few VIPs tried to speed away, but it was pumped full of coaxial machine gun fire, killing the driver and causing it to slam into a wall. Bullets continued to pepper the vehicle, killing its occupants as they tried to clamber out of its doors and run.
The sound of heavy footsteps meshed into the ringing chaos in her ears, and Shiho jerked to the side as she felt a gloved hand grab her bicep and pull her off the ground. "Ma'am, you need to move now! We can't stay here!"
One of the masked guards exclaimed as he pulled Shiho close to a wall and forcibly escorted her away from the carnage, pulling her through an abandoned building with his gun raised ahead of them. The Nishizumi matriarch was too stunned by the events unfolding to form a sentence, especially one that wasn't in her native language, and let herself be effortlessly led out of a back door and closer to a group of armored cars where VIPs could be loaded into and evacuated.
Before she knew it, Shiho found herself in the passenger seat of the up-armored SUV, and it was speeding down the ruined roads of the Kazahk countryside. The SUV was packed with others frantically making calls to people they knew, staring out the tinted windows in fear, or sitting in utter silence, contemplating what had just occurred.
Shiho's hands shook slightly as he stared at her phone screen, her fingers rapidly pressing a down arrow as she searched through her contact list before coming over two names. She pressed call on the bottom one and brought the phone to her ear, biting the inside of her cheek as she anxiously waited for the person to pick up on the other side of the line.
The phone rang for what felt like an eternity, and just when she thought she would be diverted to voice mail, the line clicked, and a voice called out to her from the other side, halfway across the word. "Shiho? Hey, how are you doing? I thought you would not be able to call on your business trip."
"Tsuneo." She exhaled shakily, his voice bringing some sense of comfort to her in the horrible situation she found herself in.
Tsuneo was immediately concerned when he heard his wife's voice. Shiho was never one to speak timidly, and something in her tone set him on edge. "What's wrong?" He inquired.
"I—" Shiho froze. She had no idea what she could say. She couldn't tell Tsuneo the truth, as that would drag him into a horrible world to which she wanted him to stay ignorant. Still, she needed to tell him something, if anything, just to hear his voice. "I just needed to call you. To tell you that I'm…going to be home sooner than expected."
"T-that's great honey, I'm sure the girls will be happy to hear that," Tsuneo stammered on the other end of the line, "but did something happen? You don't sound ok—"
"I'm okay!" Shiho snapped, a flurry of frustration and anxiety building up inside her. "I just—"
"Oh my god! TANK! TAAAAANK!" A man screamed in the front-passenger seat, banging his hand on the dash and pointing through the front windshield, so the guard driving the armored SUV would look at what was ahead of them. Shiho sucked in a breath as she saw the . 234 from early, blocking the crossroad ahead of them.
The armored car turret rotated, and its 5cm canon rested on the front of the SUV that was closing in on its position fast. Shiho's eyes widened as she practically stared down the barrel of the armored car, and time slowed as the other passengers in the vehicle screamed frantically.
"I love you, Tsuneo." She uttered, barely audible, over the sounds of screaming from her end of the line.
Then, the cannon roared to life.
_
Florian Wöhler let out a shaky breath as he fired the main canon of the Puma, the thump of the breach sliding back and ejecting the spent shell reverberating throughout his body. Through the cannon's optics, he watched as the high-explosive shell he fired sped past the SUV by a wide margin and slammed into the dirt far away, exploding and kicking up soil and dust. The SUV swerved as it slammed on its brakes, its driver trying to avoid slamming into the Puma. It swerved uncontrollably on the gravel road, sliding off the path and flipping onto its side in the field to Florian's right.
Slowly, Florian turned the turret using the manual traverse and rested the Hauptstachel in the center of his gunsight on the middle of the vehicle. Slowly, he leaned back from the sight and opened his closed eye. Georg had already grabbed another shell from the ready rack and prepared to load it into the breach of the canon but stopped when he saw the look on Florian's face.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't do this." Whispered the young man in the commander's seat. In the chaos of scrambling to their vehicle, he and Georg had swapped seats by accident, and it was too late for them to change as Hoffmann was already driving them out of the factory under heavy fire. So, the two of them settled to perform each other's jobs as the situation called for it.
Florian couldn't find it in himself to fire the canon on the soft targets they were faced with, as he was afraid of someone besides the armed guards getting caught in the blast, and dying. Georg wasn't too keen on killing others either, having done his best all tournament to hit tracks and engine blocks so the shrapnel from their shells wouldn't directly cause any fatalities. Even in a desperate situation like they were in now, Florian still couldn't find himself to fire the canon. Kurth's crew in the Panzer III and that one Russian crew that accompanied them in their escape didn't seem to have a problem.
"God, I feel like a bitch." The young man scoffed as he leaned his forehead against the headrest for the gunsight.
He then looked through the periscope and watched as the heavy doors on the top side of the armored SUV were slowly pushed open, and slowly, people started to exit the packed vehicle. Many were rocked by the impact of the crash, but the SUV hadn't rolled completely over or slammed hard enough into the soil to crumble under its own weight. No one was crushed, but whiplash and potential concussion from hitting the sides plagued a few of them. Florian clenched his teeth together as he watched a familiar face crawl out of the vehicle and drop to the ground.
It was the same woman whom he ran into when he was frantically trying to get into the Puma when all hell broke loose. Although he convinced himself earlier that all of those spectators and the supposed VIPs were just as awful as his captors, team managers, and the organizers forcing him into these killing games, he still felt bad striking a woman like that. With a deep sigh, his hands left the traverse and elevation wheels and he unlocked the hatch above him.
"Florian, what are you doing?"
Throwing open the hatch, Florian shimmied up out of the opening and rest his arms on the top of the Puma's turret, taking in the fresh air and watching as people crawled out of the flipped SUV. The German boy found his eyes locking with the Asian woman, who pushed herself off the ground and stared up at the armored car that blocked the crossroad.
Neither of them said anything, and Florian simply gave the perplexed group of adults a timid wave before sliding back into the confines of the cramped turret.
"Hoffmann," He called out to the driver as he shut the hatch above him. "Let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?" Asked the driver, as he put the Puma in reverse before pulling a three-point turn and continuing down the road, leaving the flipped SUV and its occupants untouched on the side of the road.
"I don't know..."