This is a test: if you don't read these, raise your hand. No hands...cool. Just seeing if you're paying attention. Now, if this were a story about pilots, this would probably have 'Highway to the Danger Zone' in it. But it isn't about pilots, it's about people much, MUCH crazier: Tankers. I mean, you kinda have to be to willingly get into a steel box filled to the brim with explosives and gasoline, then deliberately drive it towards your enemy; knowing full well you're going to take fire the entire way. Add then on top of that, you're in the world of Fooly-Cooly...yes, I take my straight jackets in XXL-Tall please...
. . .
First thing the next morning, at precisely 0600 local time, residents and visitors alike on the Carson property roused themselves and began going about their day. The sidelines of the runway became a running track as everyone took their exercise. I.I.B. soldiers held breakfast outside, sitting on camp chairs and crates, and mixing with O.W. Auxiliary. A set of loudspeakers crackled on and began playing an easy 'Memphis Guitar Soul'. Mana finished her own morning run and workout, showered, dressed, and then reported to the freighter's bridge. Amarao was there, attempting to raise their command for new orders.
"Good morning, Commander."
"Good morning, indeed." Amarao didn't look up from the radio's control panel, but did point to a table with a tray; piled high with freshly baked breads and a pot of coffee. "Breakfast, courtesy of Shigekuni Nandaba. Help yourself."
"Any word yet?" Mana ripped open a small loaf and steam came wafting out. Still warm, and Mana bit in. "Wow…this is really good…"
"Here it comes." Amarao started jotting down the incoming message. He would enter it into the ship's decryption machine, following a similar procedure that O.W. did when it received a message. Both now waited for the correctly chosen decryption program to begin work on the locked message, and then the results to print. Amarao read first. "They cannot be serious."
. . .
The blast from the Tovex charges hidden in the G&R office door awning had not only blown out the windows, but scrambled the computer on the desk next to that window. G&R had been able to use unsecured computers to send vague updates, but could not safely receive messages. The latest supply run from Agent Griggs had brought a new set of clean and secure computers for re-establishing two-way communication to O.W. command. As Commander Amarao received his orders, Tommy submitted his credentials and was connected to O.W.'s network; and also was assailed with a backlog of unread messages. First and foremost was a message for all Overwatch stations on Earth, marked with the highest priority alert and immediate dispersal. This was the secrecy equivalent of being told to drop everything else you were doing.
"No way…well, that'll make things interesting to say the least."
. . .
"A blockade?" Mana read over Amarao's shoulder. "Nothing leaves Earth, nothing lands. So we're stuck here."
"That's not all." Amarao scrolled down to the second half. "We're ordered to assist local Overwatch forces, at their discretion."
"At their discretion?" Mana wasn't sure she had heard correctly. This meant her company, trained in boarding hostile craft at sea, on land, in the air and space, and had fought head-on against Red Star troops…would be taking orders from an admittedly sizable and determined, but lightly armed, local militia. "That doesn't sound right."
"No…it doesn't." Amarao ran his index finger along an eyebrow. This was a new habit he had picked up of late, his nervous tic. "Let's meet with Captain Carson, and see if he's gotten anything from his command." They disembarked and started to G&R's shop office. As they approached, there arose from the building the roaring and revving of a powerful engine.
. . .
"I think we're ready for a real-deal drive. Let's take 'er outside Johnny; start us up!" Rig pounded excitedly on the turret roof.
"I've waited all week for this moment! So cool, so cool, so-so-so-so-so coooool…" Johnny started his checklist. "Voltmeter is 26-volts, no discharge on the ammeter, fuel is full, ignition switch closed. Starting turnover…turnover good. Choke back all the way. Throttle out. Clutch in, gear is neutral. Ignition on, starting switch now…" Eight cylinders of Detroit made power stirred to life. "Choke is all the way in, manual turning nut on oil filter reversed to full flow…and filter is operating. Oil pressure forty pounds, RPM is thirteen hundred. Pressures are good, temperatures are good, discharges and volts are good, no bad lights. We are ready to go!"
"Comms check." Rig pressed his throat microphone to test it. Everyone else chimed in. "Okay, intercom is good. Take us out!" For the first time in seven decades, the Sherman began to drive forward and out into the morning sun. Johnny feathered the right track and put the left one full forward, turning the tank towards the Boneyard. Clanking, rattling, shaking the ground and waking any late sleepers, the tank lumbered down the road.
. . .
"What…is that?" Amarao wondered aloud as a tank passed him and Mana. Josh and Johnny's heads peeped up from the Driver and Assistant Driver hatches, and Mana recognized Naota and Jeff; the first standing behind the turret on the engine deck, and the second sitting in the Commander's hatchway. The hulking vehicle passed the I.I.B. officers like two bumps on a log, leaving behind dust, exhaust, and track marks in the road. As it went by, Mana read the name painted on the tank's main gun, thus dubbing the imposing machine:
ORGASMATRON!
"It looks like a tank, sir. An old one."
"Where did they dig it up? Maybe O.W. has more tricks up their sleeve than we give them credit for; if they have armor. Perhaps I underestimated them."
"Good equipment does not a good fighting force make. That tank will do them no good if they cannot deploy it properly."
"Fair enough." They reached the office. "Now, let's be professional. We're all on the same team; service branch rivalries aside."
"Of course, Commander." Amarao knocked.
"Captain Carson, may we come in?"
"Yes! Please, do. Did you get breakfast yet?" Tommy was eating a bowl of cereal while checking two weeks of unread messages. "Shigekuni and Hi-Way Pizza made bread for everyone."
"We did, and it was very good. Thank you."
"Glad to hear you liked it, you'll be eating a lot more of it in the near future." Tommy turned his computer monitor around for them to see. "Looks like you're stuck with us; I'm sorry to say."
"Talks with The Red Star of The Solar Federation have been indefinitely suspended?" Mana read Overwatch's version of the news. "The Red Star have withdrawn their emissaries and diplomatic teams, and cut off all communications…so we're one hair trigger from an actual out-and-out shooting war; not the usual secret war we've been fighting. That explains the blockade on Earth, since there's a Red Star force here."
"And you've been attached to my guys." Tommy said with a bright smile. "Welcome, to both Overwatch, and the Irregular Pennsylvanian Army."
"I would like to make things quite clear right now, rather than assume things and guarantee hurt feelings later on." Amarao began staking out his terms of service. "My company is not equipped for full-scale battle. This was supposed to be a prisoner exchange and transfer; a prisoner your forces failed to apprehend. This already makes me skeptical. Further, your men are non-uniformed, non-standardized and unregulated, your weaponry, vehicles, and equipment are outdated, and I worry you're in over your head. You, and Lieutenant Kitsurubami, are both the same rank grade, O-3. Your Major Carson was an O-4 and I am an O-5. Think of how that looks, and how one might be uncomfortable with such an arrangement."
"This wasn't my idea, Commander." Tommy reminded. "We weren't counting on housing, equipping, supporting, and especially feeding, an additional two hundred people; and God help us if this lasts into winter. I think I'm safe in saying I'm about as thrilled with these orders as you."
"At least we're being honest with each other. So, I will be upfront. We are at your service as ordered, within reason. I will command my own forces, they will answer only to me. That said, if individual soldiers are required for special assignment, we can address that on a case-by-case basis. In exchange, you have full access to our freighter and its medical bay, reactor in case your main power is cut, and of course all long range communications and computer systems."
"That sounds fair." Tommy concurred with Amarao's terms. "Commander, how old are you; in Earth years?"
"Twenty-seven."
"You're quite mature for having achieved such a prestigious rank at such an age. Anyone else would have aired their grievances in front of my guys; calling it establishing dominance or something. Instead, you had the decency to do this in private; and I am immensely grateful for that. However, our commands both have placed you as attached to me. If you do openly insubordinate me in front of my men, I will have you arrested on the spot and court martialed. I don't see that happening, I've read your record and just finished reading other I.I.B. officer testimonials; and I'm very impressed. So I know your head is screwed on right. And all the same applies to you as well, Lieutenant; both in regards to command structure and your impressive records. Now…if we're done being dramatic, 'cause this's exhausting to do this early, I think we understand each other and will have no problems working together?"
"Yes, on all accounts." All three shook on the terms, no papers, signatures, pesky lawyers, or documents; a gentlemen's and lady's agreement between officers.
"Awesome. If you'll care to join me outside…" Bah-whooooommm… "I am going to watch my Security and R&D Team blow stuff up with their new tank."
"That sounds like a fun way to start your day." Mana said as they rode in Tommy's truck to the airfield. "Heavy cannon fire, that is."
"Do you have an interest in cannon, artillery and such?" Tommy asked. "You are a Special Weapon company after all."
"Interest isn't the correct word…but it's what I will use for now." Already she was scanning her mental archives for anything and everything she knew on tank gunnery; which was substantial to say the least.
"Then, at least for you Lieutenant…" They stood back as the Sherman flew by at full speed, practicing executing turns in high gear; in addition to on the move target practice. "You getting stuck here with us, has made this your lucky day."
. . .
Sam the Hound had finished off his half of a ham sandwich; generously donated by a victim of irresistible and sad Hound Dog Eyes. Nothing had changed at the Port Matilda State Police Station and Sam was wondering if his time might be better spent elsewhere. Then the ground began to vibrate. Before any human heard, Sam's ears picked up the rumble of diesel engines. Up the main street rolled a column of black and tan camouflaged armored cars, trucks, personnel carriers, fighting vehicles, and even tractor trailers full of supplies or pulling low-boys with excavation and construction equipment. All were stamped with the bold letters of: DARK RIVER SECURITY. Dozens of vehicles filled the town, surrounding the police station. Contractors by the hundreds in khaki uniforms and black gear dismounted, formed up and marched into the station's tent city. Having been in a front row seat for the grim parade, Sam decided to leave while he still could. Ignoring his protesting joints, Sam began his long journey home.
. . .
"I don't know if we're going to find a gunner; at least not in whatever little time we have." I said, watching our latest candidate stomp off; torqued he couldn't master the Sherman's gunnery controls.
"We have been at this all day." Johnny agreed. He walked carefully by and began emptying the last jerry can of fuel into the tank's, well, gas tank. "Maybe we built too good of a mousetrap. We need either a master crane operator, or a human spider that can control each limb independently, perfectly."
"The only master crane operator we have around here is Tommy." Josh said from his Assistant Driver's seat. He had a laptop with him that was providing a real time status of all the Sherman's systems; trying to catch anything out of place or we had missed. "And he's a little too valuable and busy to be bombing around with us in a steel pillbox."
"Could Canti do it?" Mike wondered as he pitched up and out a spent practice shell into a waiting truck. It would be reshaped and resized, then reloaded later. "Well, he could mentally…but if I just fit, we'd have to fold him in half…never mind."
"Let's put an ad in the classifieds." Naota had given gunnery his own try, deciding it was not for him after half an hour at the controls. If we had more time, we could surely train someone, anyone, to fill the seat. But with no idea when we could be attacked, time was something we did not have. "Wanted: a small-statured person of slender build, twenty-twenty vision, perfect hand-eye coordination, able to write Greek with one hand and Latin with the other, at the same time, while tapping one foot in three/four time, and the other in five/four time. Must be unafraid of dangerous, smoke-filled, noisy and cramped working conditions. Must not be claustrophobic, frightened of loud noises, work well under stress and extreme pressure, and be unafraid of burning to death."
"Little dark on the end there, but true. Also, able to find, communicate, and engage targets in rapid succession, calculate round trajectory while on the move and at unknown distance, all in their head without breaking out the calculator." I put in a few requirements.
"And they'll also walk your dog, mow your lawn, and even do your taxes!" Mike added to our wish-list. While we're dreaming, right?
"If only…if only. Hey, don't they make one of those automatic what's-their-called…afternoon, Lieutenant!" With us stopped and the engine shut off to cool and refuel, our gallery of spectators had ambled over to get a better look. Among them was Commander Amarao's executive officer: Lieutenant Kitsurubami. She walked around the tank three times, hands clasped behind her back and holding her garrison cap. She gave the Sherman, and us, the sharpest examining eye. Track links and pads, the suspension and road wheels, exterior front and rear lights, climbed onto the tracks to look into the engine compartment, looked in through the Driver and Assistant Driver hatches at our interior, and all the while looking for a spot or speck of rust or unpainted metal. All looked in order until her last pass when she stopped to look up at the main gun, and the name painted on it.
"Sergeant Carson?" She looked up at me, then the barrel again. "Are you in command of this vehicle?"
"Yes, Ma'am." Standing right behind me, I knew Naota was waiting with the patience of mountains, for me to say (or not say and lock up again) anything goofy. Hold yourself together Jeff, you can do this. "I went through the armor courses at Overwatch's non-commissioned officer school. As of now, my leg is still too damaged to drive so First Sergeant Johnathon Shaw handles that with aplomb, Sergeant Josh Copenhaver isn't going to let me anywhere near his electronics, Corporal Michael DuBois rebuilt the gun's breech and firing mechanism, so he is perfect as Loader, and I cannot split my mind four different ways at once well enough to man the Gunner's seat; even if my cast could fit inside the trigger shield. So, I sit up here."
"I see." It was only then I realized I was out of breath, having splurged that entire paragraph in a matter of seconds. "Where did this name, Orgasmatron, come from?"
"I am The One, Orgasmatron, the outstretched, grasping hand! My image is of agony…I hold a banner drenched in blood, I urge you to be brave! I lead you to your destiny, I lead you to your grave… For I am Mars, the God of War, and I will cut you down!"
"Motorhead, a good choice of lyrics and name for a tank; very fitting."
"It was also on the radio when we were trying to think of a name for it. But that part of the story isn't as exciting; is it?"
"Ah, there it is. The truth, at last." She said with a smug smile. "I've read about the M1A2 gun, but have never seen one in person. May I?"
"Of course. Come on…" She folded her garrison cap, tucked it under her uniform's right shoulder board strap, and sprang up the front slope of the tank in three bounds. "…Up. The Gunner seat is down through my hatch, then the bottom seat. Please watch your head going down." I pulled up my legs and swung sideways so she could drop down in. I followed, sitting on my lower, main seat; not the higher fold-out one. This lower seat was for when my hatch was closed.
"It's not as cramped as I thought it would be. Quite cozy, actually." Lieutenant Kitsurubami remarked, twisting her shoulders and limbs to feel out how much space she had. "Although, this control system is remarkably different than how I remember the file photos. Tell me about it."
"Well, where to begin?" Okay, okay, okay…there's a female superior officer, a very fine superior female officer in front of you, right there in front of you, with her head and shoulders between your knees. Do NOT make this weird, do NOT make this weird, DO NOT make this weird! "We'll start with what should be familiar. At your right hand, that vertical joystick, is the Turret Traverse. That switch on it there, toggles between its automatic hydraulics and manual turning. On automatic, depress the red lever, it's a grip safety, and push the stick forward for left. Pull back towards yourself for right. Switching to manual means you have to spin the joystick. So counter clockwise gives you left traverse, and clockwise, right traverse. Manual will work right now, but without the engine running, hydraulics and automatic won't." I clarified as she worked the toggle and swung the turret a few degrees left and right. "Gun elevation, or laying, is the horizontal joystick above your left knee. It's the same principle, with gun up counter clockwise, and gun down clockwise."
"The familiar is clear so far. What's this new one?" She tapped her left foot on the hood of a pedal on the turret basket's floor; one that obviously wasn't a factory original. "Ejection seats?"
"That's your toggle between the main gun and coaxial gun. We've taken two State Police M240B's and modified them to fit. One is up front with Josh, Sergeant Copenhaver, and the other on Mike's, Corporal DuBois', side of the main gun."
"And that means this one…" She tapped her right foot on the other trigger hood covering the second pedal. "Is the trigger; for both the main and coaxial guns?"
"Yes. And aside from the seat you're sitting on, its adjustment, your main periscope, and the gun's original iron sights…that's where the similarities to the old setup end."
"I see that." She looked at the bank of screens in front of her. "These definitely aren't original."
"It's not the 40's anymore, we've modernized. On the turret sides and roof, there are in total three lasers, and then one on the very end of the gun. These are synced to your electronic sight display; that big screen in front your nose. They range, find the angle between us and a target, and estimate its speed. That is fed into a computer, which is also reading wind from a sensor on the roof, factoring in our speed, and any other information we give it: temperature, humidity, elevation, atmospheric pressure, and even specifics on a particular ammunition type; if you so desire. And if you look under the gun, you'll see that gyroscopic stabilizer which keeps the gun level even while on the move; we took it off a bulldozer blade. It should keep the gun's elevation within an eighth of a degree while we're moving. That figures out to a hit probability of seventy-odd percent, at ranges from three hundred yards to twelve hundred yards while we're moving at fifteen miles an hour."
"Impressive. But does it also mix drinks?"
"Not yet."
"What ammunition are you shooting?"
"Solid steel shot, AP steel with a tungsten core, HEAT steel with an inner lead sleeve and Tovex core, HE steel shell with a Tovex filling, and a nylon Sabot with a tungsten penetrator dart. But today we're using a nylon Sabot with a length of scrap rebar cut to length."
"That sounds like a desert menu. Is that all?"
"…Yes. That's all we have."
"So you're telling me you don't have any basic AP capped, AP fin-stabilized discarding sabot, or AP incendiary?"
"Yes, I am Ma'am."
"Goodness me. No explosive formed penetrators, self-forging fragments, self-forging projectiles, or Misznay Schardin charges?"
"I'm afraid not."
"You're commanding a tank, which doesn't have a single round of AP ballistic capped, AP-HE tracer, Semi-AP-HE incendiary, HE squash head, AP composite rigid, AP composite non-rigid, AP capped and ballistic capped, incendiary, with or without the white phosphorous, or even one single round of canister?"
"No to all. Wait, did you say canister, Lieutenant?"
"I certainly did."
"Why didn't we think of that?" I hurried to write it down so it could be added to our inventory. "This's quite embarrassing."
"Just what kind of outfit are you running, Sergeant?" She said with a grin and enjoyed a laugh while continuing her review the controls. "Let's see…variable zoom adjustment, night vision, thermal vision, sight focus, reticle display, turret traverse lock, turret traverse tracking, gun laying lock, gun laying tracking, a laser for target designating, very interesting, Gunner's radio and intercom settings, plug-in and interface, smoke grenade launcher, compass, clock, and a master automatic to manual control switch…" She kept scanning over and over, now looking for something else.
"Do you have a question?"
"There's nothing I see that links to that loudspeaker on the side of the turret."
"Oh, that? I control it." I held up its microphone as she twisted around to look. "I can speak through it directly, or we can play music through it."
"Is that wise, playing music in battle?"
"You must not discount the value of psychological warfare."
"There might be a point there." She looked back at the controls, feeling each out and muttering to herself. "While I think the loudspeaker is a bit silly, the rest of the vehicle seems to be in good and proper order. Have you found a gunner yet?"
"No Ma'am, not yet. We're trying but no one can run all those controls at once."
"Perhaps there's something faulty with the controls? Something you might have missed, and none of the candidates knew enough about to spot. I would like to run the course and test the controls myself; just to be sure."
"…Now?"
"No Sergeant, next week on Tuesday at 1400 hours, yes, now." She picked up the Gunner's headset off its hook, strapping the throat voice box around her neck. "Do you have a ballistic or range card for your ammunition handy?"
"Right here." I handed it over and she took to speed reading.
"Thank you. I'll be ready whenever you are."
"Alrighty then. Johnny, Josh, Mike, Shifty, Naota! Lieutenant Kitsurubami wants to run the Gunner's course! Let's mount up!" The first three slid through their hatches while Shifty and Naota hiked up the hill. "Okay guys, we're going to run this buttoned up; so no cracking your hatch to peek. The Lieutenant here is troubleshooting and testing our Gunner controls to see if something might be off. So let's show the I.I.B. that O.W. isn't the Backwoods Bumpkin Band we're made out to be and put on a good display. Mike, what've we got for ammo?"
"Twenty-five practice nylon and rebar core sabot slugs. Call it, five of each type for the course?"
"That sounds fair. Lieutenant, even though they're all nylon slugs with a rebar core to simulate Sabot, proceed as if you have five each of Shot, AP, HEAT, HE, and Sabot."
"Five each, understood." She was moving both her hands over the controls, back and forth, quizzing herself. "How does the course work?"
"There are fifteen targets. Three each of an unarmored patrol car, a troop carrying truck, an MRAP, an IFV, and a light tank. There are also squads of dismounted infantry targets for the Bow Gunner, and you on coax. Now, Sergeant Shaufner and Private Nandaba have a radio, and a remote control. They will lower and raise targets at random. We will either have to spot the targets, or they'll tell us where it is. Your score is based on time taken to engage, efficiency of round selection, and actual shot hits and placement. I said all of this very fast. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"What's the best score anyone's gotten so far?"
"It's on a one to ten scale, they got a six; lots of misses and very slow on the controls."
"Then I'll have to aim carefully; and maybe go around again to beat my own score. This sounds like fun!"
"I assure you, it is. Okay, button-up!" Four hatches clanked and latched tightly shut. "Sound off as I call for ready and comm checks. Bow?"
"Ready!" Josh and his M240 were locked and loaded.
"Driver?"
"Ready to begin startup!"
"Loader?"
"Five-All remaining, Shot ready, Coax ready, I'm ready!"
"Gunner?"
"Ready!"
"Shifty, Nao', you copy?"
"Solid."
"Roger, starting up. We'll confirm startup, then you count us off. Driver, go ahead."
. . .
ORGASMATRON! and its engine roared to rumbling, putting a tingle through the whole vehicle and into Mana's seat. She had already adjusted the sights and displays to her liking. Now she mentally ran over every control; putting a light tap or touch on each to help build her muscle memory. Behind and above her, Sergeant Carson adjusted his periscopes. Then she heard the sound of a music player's starting-up chime.
"Sergeant Carson, what is that?"
"Distraction." He said simply. "Something to buzz in your ear that'll mess with your focus."
"You never said anything about…"
"Naota, we're ready." Sergeant Carson relayed Sergeant Shaw's startup confirmation. "Count us off. Oh, and Lieutenant?"
"Y-yes?"
"You're probably going to get kicked at least once. Just know, that it's nothing personal; and please, please, please don't reprimand me for it."
"I'm what?!"
"Beginning course in FIVE…FOUR…THREE…" Mana shook her head as Naota counted, steadied her grips on the traverse controls and snugged her feet securely under the trigger guards. What a way to being one's afternoon! "TWO…ONE…START!"
"Driver, forward, half-speed." Sergeant Carson ordered. As the engine revved, tracks squeaked and clanked, and vehicle thrummed with power, deep evil guitar notes began pouring through everyone's headset and blasting over the loudspeaker; thudding, crashing drums following in rhythmic plodding.
"Car! One o'clock, one hundred yards." Sergeant Carson called as the plywood facsimile of a police patrol car sprang up.
"Car, one o'clock, at one hundred yar…shit, one hundred yards." Mana acknowledged, first swinging the turret to the left on accident before correcting. "On it. Load Shot."
"Loading Shot." Corporal DuBois pushed the shell's base with his balled fist's knuckles to avoid losing his fingers to the unforgiving breech. "Four Shot remaining, gun's UP!" He announced as he levered the breech locked and ready to fire.
"Gunner, target that car's engine." Sergeant Carson ordered Mana's specific area to aim for.
"Gunner ready." At only half speed and coming straight at their stationary target, it was an easy hold.
"Send it."
"On the way!" She pressed with her right toes, and inches from her head the big gun recoiled with a concussive CRAK-THOOOOMM!
"Good hit." Sergeant Carson congratulated. One down, fourteen to go.
"Loading Shot." Corporal DuBois left the spent shell clanging on the floor of the turret basket. "Three Shot remaining, gun's UP!"
"Infantry, eleven o'clock close!" Sergeant Copenhaver spotted the wall of silhouette targets pop up in a shallow ditch to their left.
"Bow, engage." Sergeant Copenhaver's gun made quick work of the plywood ambushers, along with an appropriate lyrical accompaniment:
*I am the one, Orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand!
My image is of agony, my servants rape the land!
Obsequious and arrogant, clandestine and vain…
"Turn to our right ahead." Sergeant Shaw said as the marked dirt road curved.
"Okay, looks clear from up here. Get ready to…Truck, three o'clock, close!"
"Truck, three o'clock close, on it!"
"Driver, all stop. Loader, swap HE."
"Loading HE." Mike unlocked the breech, it half spat out the loaded Shot and he pulled it out the rest of the way. "Four HE remaining, gun's UP!"
Two thousand years of misery… of torture in my name.
Hypocrisy made paramount, paranoia the law!
My name is called Religion… sadistic, sacred whore!
"Gunner, right through the truck's windshield."
"Ready." Mana centered the sight on the painted square that stood in for a windshield.
"Send it."
"On the way." CRAK-THOOOOMM!
"Good hit. Driver, ahead half. Take the turn easy, it's a gentle curve."
"Trench ahead." Johnny spotted the backhoe dug rectangular hole across the road.
"Slow us down, one quarter. Watch for infantry."
"Infantry front left, front right, close!" Mana saw the wooden silhouettes spring up in ambush.
"Bow right, Coax left." Mana pressed with her left foot, while pushing forward with her right hand, and pulling back with her left, all to bring the turret around, gun down, and switch weapons. There was a psh-clack as a solenoid engaged, switching her trigger control to the coaxial M240. She lined the reticle up on the edge of the targets, slowly pulled her right hand back, and pushed with her right foot. The M240, muzzle outside the turret, had a sharp, staccato sound to it, and Mana put a row of holes in the targets as regular as a sewing machine. But then, turret facing left and down, Jeff spotted another target.
I twist the Truth, I rule the World!
My crown is called Deceit!
I am the Emperor of Lies… you grovel at my feet…
"I.F.V., one o'clock, four hundred."
"Load HEAT." Mana called for new ammunition, swinging the turret back up and right. "I.F.V., one o'clock, four hundred, on it."
"Loading HEAT, four remaining, gun's UP!"
"Gunner, right in the middle, below the turret. That'll take out the ammo racks."
"Below the turret…read…" A split-second before calling ready, she remembered she was still on coax. Psh-clack. "Ready!"
"Send it."
"On the way." Mana watched as a white blur flashed across her screen towards the target, split in half, and a length of rebar continued on to sail through the plywood target.
"Good hit."
"Crossing the trench." Johnny warned as they approached. "Watch your heads. Crossing in three…two…one…" The tank dipped down and everyone lurched forward, barely avoiding cracking their heads on equipment or unforgiving steel. Across, the turned right and took out an MRAP at 300 yards to their eleven o'clock, and on a minor turn, also took out the first Light Tank; catching it sneaking up on them from behind at eight o'clock, two hundred.
I rob you and I slaughter you!
Your downfall is my gain!
And still you play the Sycophant, and revel in your pain!
Tacking slightly right to make a turn, they slowed for just a second. Through their headphones came an ear-splitting bang, as if Shaufner or Naota had fired a gun next to their radio's microphone. A split-second later, her ears already ringing, Mana felt Jeff's left foot come down hard on the middle of her back. The blow watered her eyes, nearly lifted her off her seat, and knocked her breath out of her chest. Eyes squinted and watering, ears protesting, lungs gasping and back throbbing, only more bad news followed.
"Orgasmatron." Shaufner's voice came through the radio. "You just took an HE shell to your turret roof. Crew uninjured, vehicle still operational. All electronic sights, range-finding, and targeting equipment is down. Gunners, go to mechanical optics." Up front, Josh had a laptop sitting on an equipment and ammunition storage shelf next to his right arm. He made a few keystrokes and all of Mana's screens went blank. Now there was no temptation to cheat.
'Carson did warn me I was going to get kicked.' Mana thought as she settled her forehead on the padding around the mechanical optics. 'Can't complain about it now…gotta focus…wow, that really, really hurt…'
And all my promises are lies, all my love is hate!
I am the Politician, and I decide your fate!
"Vehicle to your rear!" Shaufner called out just as Mana's breathing restored its rhythm.
"Driver, full reverse left, full forward right. Gunner, traverse left." Johnny stopped the tank with a heavy lurch, then spun it in a neutral turn. Thankful she still had hydraulics, Mana spun the turret and saw a car silhouette had popped up behind them.
"Loader, swap Shot." Mana called for the ammunition change. "Car, one o'clock, seventy-five."
"Loading Shot." As Mike made the change, Mana noticed two smaller silhouettes; one on either side of the car.
"Infantry, either side of the car; going to coax." Psh-clack. A press of the left foot, and a quick, sweeping burst with the right, and the infantry was dealt with.
"Three Shot remaining, gun's UP!"
"Send it."
"On the way!" Left foot, psh-clack, right foot, CRAK-THOOOOMM!
"Great hit. Okay, Driver, turn us around and let's get back on track."
I march before a martyred world…
An army for the fight…
I speak of great, heroic days…
Of Victory, and Might!
In short order they made quick work of an I.F.V. at their 9 o'clock at 300 yards while on the move, forded a mud and muck filled hole, Mana had her first miss at a truck, 600 yards to their 2 o'clock, also while moving. The round landed short, knocking up a shower of rocks and dirt. The last truck was not so lucky, even at a quartering towards, moving shot at 350 yards. They cleared with machine gun fire a barricade of junk cars, then drove right over it, took out the last patrol car, experienced a "near-miss" and executed a front-armor forward retreat in reverse gear.
I hold a banner drenched in blood…
I urge you to be brave!
I lead you to your destiny…
I lead you to your grave!
"MRAP, two-thirty, one hundred." The call for a new target came down.
"MRAP, two-thirty…" Mana pulled back on the right stick, bringing the turret from a nine o'clock position. Halfway there, another head-splitting bang erupted in their ears, and again Jeff planted his boot square on Mana's back. Already hurting from last time, the edges of her vision flashed black for a moment and her forehead bounced off the gunsight's padding.
"Orgasmatron, you just took a glancing hit in your engine compartment." Mana just heard over the ringing bell in her head. "All gun and turret hydraulics are offline."
"Understood, gun and turret hydraulics are down." Mike reached under the gun and disconnected the stabilizer, then back to the firewall to shut off the turret's hydraulic lines.
"Gunner, that MRAP's still out there." Jeff reminded. Mana gritted her teeth and began to crank. No favors were being granted on account of her rank. With the tank still moving, she turned past the target, then fired as the sight passed the firing point. "Good hit."
"MRAP, ten o'clock, four hundred." As they made a left turn, Josh spotted their next target. Mana brought the turret around again, now to the left; almost like they were popping up targets on opposite sides of the tank on purpose…
'Now, this shot'll be a challenge; finally.' She thought, keeping the sights steady by slowly rotating the traverse. 'Gun is dialed in at five hundred, will be high at four hundred…falling roughly nine inches per one hundred yards, so nine high. Moving at fifteen miles an hour, shell is going twenty-six hundred feet per second. Four hundred yards is twelve hundred feet, so that's zero point four six seconds. Our fifteen miles an hour is zero point zero, zero four miles per second, times five-two-eighty is…twenty-two feet per second forward. That times our zero point four six seconds to target…gives a ten point twelve foot lead. Too easy!'
Your bones will build my palaces!
Your eyes will stud my crown!
For I am Mars, The God of War!
And I will cut you down!
"MRAP, ten o'clock, four hundred, on it."
"Send it."
"On the way!" CRAK-THOOOOMM! For a tense half-second, Mana waited to see if her math had been correct. Splinters flew as a Sabot slug, and even the nylon halves, blasted through the plywood.
"Good hit, very good." They traversed and shot up another trench, stopped for a six hundred yard shot on a Light Tank to their rear, and scaled, then descended a 60-degree ramp up and down. Along the way, Shaufner made a radio call to inform they had 'repaired' their optics, sights, range-finding, and targeting equipment. A few taps on Josh's laptop and Mana's screens lit up again. With the restored sights, she blasted the last I.F.V., cleared with Josh another barricade, and then made a 1,000 yard shot on the last Light Tank. It was her second miss, the initial range estimation had been off by 100 yards, and an unforeseen severe crosswind at five hundred yards blew the shell off course. Luckily, with the large dust clouds shell impacts kicked up, adjustments were easy to make. Finally, they raced at full speed back to the starting line.
"And…time!" Naota said over the radio, in charge of record keeping and timing their run of the course.
"How'd we do?"
"That was an improvement, but it's not hard to improve on garbage. Run it again." Naota said in his best gruff S.A.S. captain's voice.
"Okay, Captain Price; but seriously?" Everyone anxiously awaited while Naota and Shaufner calculated their final score. How did the, now tired from a day of training, crew and inexperienced gunner fare?
"Out of a possible perfect ten, with the last high score being a six…your run was an eight point five."
"Woo-hoo! Eight point five, alright!" Johnny, Josh, Mike, and Jeff were all terribly pleased with themselves, popping open their hatches and waving to the crowd of spectators; shouting out their new high score. Done for the day, all dismounted the vehicle to stretch out.
"I'm so, so, so, so, sorry Lieutenant!" Jeff said as he and Mana climbed down. "I should have warned you better; maybe I shouldn't have kicked you at all, seeing's you're an officer and all. Please don't have me busted."
"You were only simulating concussion of taking hits from enemy shells…" Mana stretched her back, going side-to-side, down all the way to her toes, the back up with both hands together high above her head, and was rewarded with a stiff popping of bone. "It's only right you'd want a gunner that can still fight under those conditions. However!" She turned and marched up so they were face to face; nearly nose to nose. "Next time I run this course, because anything under a nine point five won't do, and you kick me, you'll do it right!" She searched Jeff's face for either the usual fear of getting dressed down, resentment of the same, or a mix of both. Instead there was an attention like he was noting faithfully all of her directions. She'd addressed many enlisted before, but none looked like they enjoyed listening to her talk; or in this case, speak so bluntly. "If you're going to simulate concussion, if you're going to kick me, then you'd better at least leave a mark or two; make it hurt! I don't have think I'll have a single red mark or boot print; let alone a bruise. Would you consider that an acceptable simulation of painful stimulation, Sergeant?!"
"…No, no Ma'am. I would not." Jeff shook his head. "My apologies. I made the mistake of going easy on you. Next time, I'll be sure to kick you so hard, your tonsils will fly out."
"That's better. Aside from that..." Mana looked back at ORGASMATRON! and sighed to herself. Oh, what fun...what fun it would be... "I could find no faults with any of your equipment, your vehicle is in top condition; considering its age. Also, your crew work well together, and know your tank inside and out. Any gunner you find should consider themselves lucky."
"Thank you, very much Ma'am." Jeff proudly beamed. "I have faith we'll find someone; hopefully half as skilled as you."
"Is that, flattery, Sergeant?"
"An attempt at it." The longer they talked, the less professional and relaxed their conversation became, the harder it was for Jeff to maintain eye contact. "And not a good one, it seems."
"Flattery is only as good as it is genuine. I scored an eight point five for goodness sake! That's hardly catching me on a good day. Now, if I had been running a similar course with my Clovey Rifle, on the other hand..."
"Clovey?"
"Yeah, Clovey. Clovey Armaments?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know them."
"They're only the best gun-builder on Nu-Keetna; home of the Galactic Republic's Navy. No?"
"Nu-Keetna I know of...but not Clovey."
"Well, let me tell you! The best-kept secret of a planet populated with engineers and scientists, they're..."
"I hate to interrupt." Shaufner said as he did just that. "But we're needed at the shop."
"Has something happened?" Jeff asked.
"Sam's back from his patrol." Shifty waved to Josh, Johnny, and Mike, indicating for them to head back. They boarded ORGASMATRON! and started up. "My apologies, Lieutenant, but you'll have to pick this up later."
"Let me guess: bad news?" Jeff asked as he walked to his tank and Shifty offered Mana a seat in his truck with Naota.
"Bad news? No. Worse."
. . .
"Good morning, Mister Kauffman and...Mister Kauffman."
"S'up Carl?" Caleb didn't stand as the briefing room filled with chiefs, sheriffs, and officers. Chojnakci was first, seeing Carl in the hallway and Caleb inside the room.
"Holy shit...you're early." Carl stood amazed at his younger brother's punctuality. "How did that happen?"
"You found me on a good day, I guess." Caleb shrugged, finished screwing his cigarette into a filter, and lit up. "Speaking of, you haven't been home in a while. How are you? You look..." Caleb surveyed Carl from head to toe. "Fit."
"Ohhh...oh-ho...I've never been better!" Carl brought two bench vice hands together in an excited thunderclap. "I've been taking those supplements you made for me, and WOO! Do they work wonders!"
"You been taking them like I told you to?"
"Look at me!" Occupying the center of the room was a six-foot, three-inch, two-hundred and sixty five pound being with hydraulic jacks for legs, a belt of armored abdominal's, a torso resembling an upside down Christmas tree, arms and shoulders straining their restrictive shirt sleeves, topped by a hardened, imposing skull, straight razor shorn face, impeccably manicured high and tight darkest blonde hair, and blue-white wolfish eyes excited to be ALIVE! All was wrapped in custom and tailor made trappings, a blue suit, sleek leather boots, a watch you could signal astronauts on the moon with, an ensemble that looked more at home on the French Riviera than Pennsylvanian Coal Country. But no matter where he was, he was ALIVE, alive and pulse pounding, body moving, filled with energy and oxygen carried by boiling hot blood to a dynamo of a heart that could jump-start a battleship, ready for anything, anywhere, at anytime, right here, right now, let's go, ALIVE! "Look upon your handiwork, does it look like I've been taking them like you told me?!"
"Just...just say 'yes' next time, you fuckin' sperg."
"Whatever. So, Chojnakci. What's happening?!"
"...We need a final count of your troops and equipment." Captain Chojnacki eyed the rambunctious newcomer. "So that we can plan our attack today, gear up and prepare tomorrow, and move out first thing Monday."
"Cool, cool. Yeah, I've got your numbers; one second." Carl turned to an assistant, similarly jacked and dressed, and accepted a touchscreen and silver disk. The disk was tossed onto the table and Carl began to magic into existence miniatures of his company. "As I have been made to understand, there is still the lingering issue of legitimacy. Am I safe assuming that is being taken care of?"
"That will be done tomorrow." Sheriff Wilson said. "Judge Ryan will come over and officiate the process; to make Dark River Security a legal posse and all your men deputies."
"Beautiful, lookin' forward to it. Alright, here we all are." Carl finished his digital display. "Dark River Security has a vehicle and response team for every occasion, responsibly sourced from far and wide. Boom. Twelve of the Turkish ACV-15 with 25mm FNSS Sharpshooter turrets and room for eight troops. Bang. Twelve South African Ratel-60's with 60mm breech-loading mortars and seven of your best buds. Now check this. Ten South African Eland Mark-7's with cut-down 90mm low velocity howitzers, for all your on the go artillery cravings. Badda-Bing. Thirty RG-31's from South Africa with seats for six passengers and, and an M2HB on the roof. Badda-Boom. Thirty M939 series 5-ton 6x6 trucks for all your hauling and supply transport needs. And finally, for your construction and defensive works erecting, call if a project takes more than four hours, an assortment of armored bulldozers, excavators, mobile cranes, and backhoes. All manned and supported by one thousand of battle-hardened troops from combat zones and armies all over the world."
"Just what we ordered." Chief Strong seemed particularly fond of the Ratel-60 and Eland Mk. 7. "Now we can blast any of those damn I.P.A. out of any holes they're hiding in!"
"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves." Chief Warburg cautioned. The bloodletting of the previous week was still fresh in everyone's mind. "Carl, you wouldn't happen to have a map function on that touchscreen, would you?"
"As a matter of fact, Big Chief I do...right here." The table's surface turned green as a satellite view of the counties was displayed. "Now, if I may be so forward, I have a few suggestions..."
. . .
"Carl Kauffman's sure been busy, hasn't he?" Mike re-read Sam's description of the horde that had descended on Port Matilda. "The only Kauffman Brother to truly leave home and seek his fortunes afar, and he comes back with a small army; tanks and all."
"I knew acquiring the Sherman was a good idea." Rig said. "Genius, if you ask me."
"Rig, your ego is showing." Naota reminded.
"The questions are, how will they deploy..." Tommy made his own review of the list reported by Sam the Hound. "And how we respond."
"We know they will try again to take the towns, that much is certain. One of our plans was set aside for such a scenario, the police receiving additional Human reinforcements?" Solomon asked, having been summoned upon Sam's dire report. He spun up his vast mental archives to remember the list of O.W. and I.P.A. plans from memory. "Plan...Hotel? No, Tango wasn't it?"
"That...is correct." Tommy agreed. "Since we have lost our forward eyes in the traffic camera systems, and for the last time Canti, we're not mad so stop making that face, shit happens, we'll have to spread out. We'll still be able to listen in on their long-range radio, but for what we're faced with, Plan Tango is the way to go. That's settled, so Solomon, your men can begin carrying it out straight away."
"It will be done. This morning, I counseled with my foremen, and we are developing some ingenious techniques of our own for such an occasion." Solomon promised. "There may pop up some events that will surprise even us."
"I look forward to it. Last order of business." Tommy faced Rig. "Jeff...have you found a gunner for Orgasmatron yet?"
. . .
'Okay, okay Rig. Don't mess this up. You are capable, you is smart, you is...d'uhmmm...hey, HEY! Don't hem and haw at this. Just state things as fact and quit worrying about looking stupid. This is purely business.'
"Jeff?"
"No, Tommy. I have not." I had my notes ready, but my nerves were not. Just don't look at the left side of the table, and you'll be fine. Don't let your brain lock up like last time. "I do, however, have a list of top three candidates; based on their scores from running the gunnery course."
"Is that your only criteria; one run-through of a gunnery course?" Commander Amarao wanted to know. I knew he wasn't trying to be difficult. He was making sure I, as a lower Staff Sergeant, was being completely thorough. I wouldn't have him act any differently in that respect. "Or are there other factors?"
"No, not just the course, Commander. It is a major factor, as that will be their role. As pressed as we are for time, there isn't adequate time to fully train someone." I explained, checking my notes to keep myself focused. "If given enough time, I could train just about anyone. But with our enemy coming tomorrow, or the day after, the two biggest factors are: immediate skill in the here and now, and the ability to learn the role quickly; not necessarily being an immediate expert."
"I see. Excuse my interruption, please continue."
"With that in mind, and with their scores as well, these are my three candidates; in ascending order." I flipped to the list and cleared my throat. "Third is Simon Mellins, of Houtzdale. His score was a five point eight, and he has previous experience running an excavator; so a somewhat similar control scheme. Second is Liam Gilbert, of Allport. His score was a solid six. He does not have vehicle running experience, but shows a great enthusiasm and willingness to learn; although he is easily flustered when scenarios change too quickly."
"Mellins, yep...bit older but still in fightin' shape. Gilbert, yeah...works in the pits sometimes out on Flat Run Speedway." Tommy knew the names. "And number one is?"
"With a score of eight point five, a natural ability behind the controls and obvious capability of learning the role in a matter of hours, not days, my top pick is First Lieutenant Kitsurubami of the I.I.B."
"Oh." Tommy, and everyone else too, sat back in their chair. "That's, interesting."
"You asked who my candidates were, and so I gave them." I tossed my notebook on the table, feeling fooled somehow; like I'd been set up. "Based on a test everyone saw, a scoring system everyone agreed with, and who can best learn the controls in twenty-four hours, and now you're all looking at me like I said 'fuck' in church. What gives?"
"Nothing, nothing gives Sergeant." Amarao suppressed a smile. "I think I speak for everyone saying that, well, that's not what we expected you to say."
"Well, those are my three candidates. Ultimately the personnel decisions are up to you and Tommy; I just make my preferences known."
"What about you, Lieutenant?" Tommy asked Kitsurubami how she felt. "Would you feel comfortable, being an O-3 grade officer, under the command of an E-6, and in an extremely hazardous duty role? Tanks are bullet magnets and shields for infantry, after all."
"Sergeant Carson and his crew have an enviable unit cohesion, and know their vehicle as well as each other." Kitsurubami was deliberate in her words. "I cannot know for certain, how my being an outsider would affect that cohesion, nor do I know Sergeant Carson fully well enough to make any statement on his commanding abilities or philosophy. He has informed me he attended classes through the O.W. Non-Commissioned Officer's school for tanks and armored warfare, so that is to his credit; I have heard good things about O.W.'s Non-Com school. And lastly, I cannot speak good nor ill of any of his combat experiences, as I have not had sufficient time for review at this moment. All that considered, wherever I am to be assigned, I will carry out my assignments and duties to the very utmost of my ability."
"Lieutenant, that must be the most polite, most articulate 'I don't know the guy well enough to make a call, but I'll do my best either way' statement I have ever heard." Shifty burned out a laugh with a drag on his cigarette. "And I have heard quite a few in my time. You indeed have a way with words."
"Thank you, Master Sergeant." Kitsurubami replied. "That's what I was saying, in a roundabout way; in what I thought was more diplomatic."
"Spoken like a true I.I.B. officer." Tommy said, looking between me and our unintended guests. "Well, Commander? How about it? Will you let us borrow your Lieutenant? I can make the usual assurances of her physical well-being under combat conditions, which we all know are mere formalities; but I can't really say much for her sanity if she hangs out with us for too long."
"You want me to loan out my executive officer, as a tank gunner, to be under the command of a Staff Sergeant?" Commander Amarao made sure he wasn't mistaken.
"No, I don't." Tommy nodded at me. "He does. I just want whomever he thinks is best for the job."
"Sergeant Carson." Commander Amarao was back on me. "The same to you. You want me to reassign my executive officer to, what's essentially an enlisted role?"
"At any point did I stutter?" This back and forth was starting to get on my nerves. It was even beginning to override my uneasiness about asking for Lieutenant Kitsurubami, this going around in circles. Substantial enemy reinforcements of men and armor had arrived, while we were playing office politics and deciding who sits in which cubicle. And I was a gnat's short hair away from losing my patience.
"Excuse you, Sergeant?" Commander Amarao's eyebrows nearly disappeared off his head. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tommy about to say something, but Shifty quickly waved him off; probably anxious to see where I was going with this.
"Commander, with all due respect, I know you are some kind of peeved at getting stuck here in Banjo an' Kissin' Cousin Springs; but it wasn't our idea. So while you're here, you might's well help out. And right this moment, the best way of doing that is giving me a gunner that will hit their target, each and every time, all day, every day, not flub their shots and waste ammo; or worse, drop a round on our own guys. Because if Sam's even half right, and that dog's never been wrong, there's a few dozen vehicles with 25mm autocannon, 60mm mortars, and 90mm howitzers up the road, and aside from a handful of anti-tank guns, our only other option for dealing with them is to dig very deep holes to hide in. So if we're done with the knitting circle and are ready to act like officers and soldiers, then please make an executive decision; because if this takes another five minutes, I'm going to shoot something."
"No, Jeff, really tell us what you think..." I heard Mike muttering. "Don't hold back..."
"I could have you reprimanded for that." Commander Amarao stated the sky was blue, grass was green, water was wet... "But, you are right." He adjusted his posture and straightened his uniform, then looked squarely at me. "Staff Sergeant Carson, you have your gunner. Kitsurubami has trained my platoon lieutenants to such a superb degree, we merely wind them up, aim them at a target, and release them to do what they do best. She will be missed, but because of her, my company will be able to fight on without her. As we are stuck here for the foreseeable future, the fate of Earth is ours as well, and so is the outcome of this war. If this is the best way to contribute, so be it. All that I ask is that you do not waste the talents of my Lieutenant, Sergeant."
"Commander, are you...?" Kitsurubami double-checked she was hearing things correctly.
"Before I talk myself into changing my mind, yes."
"Then, at last, everything is settled." Tommy declared everything said, done, over with, and anyone speaking up now would be told to take a hike to some far off land where the locals might maybe, possibly, begin to give half a shit. "Which means, we are now elbow deep into Plan Tango. Solomon will do his part, but the rest of us also have a horrendous amount of tasks before us, and absolutely no time to get them done. So, everyone..." Tommy made one last sweep of the table for any hint of lingering questions. "Let's get this welcoming party ready for the new arrivals. You're all dismissed."
. . .
*Orgasmatron - Motorhead
That'll (hopefully) stave off the cravings for now, but there's more coming soon. I actually have about half of the next chapter written and typed up, but couldn't find a way to add it in with this latest block without making the chapters overwhelmingly long. I am a subscriber to the "Chekov's Gun" rule, so I don't intend to put something into a story without making it relevant later; just know there's no hard and fast rule as to WHEN whatever it is will be relevant. Take, for example, the M4 Sherman at the east end of Philipsburg. But hopefully this isn't just me being vain and talking/writing to myself, and you enjoy the twists and turns the story takes.
Speaking of twists and turns, now there are two of them! Two Kauffman Brothers, at the same time, in the same chapter, working together?! Oh dear God, what do we do now?! Panic? Panic. Panic sounds good. Okay, that didn't solve anything. But I'm still freaked out, what do these two have in mind for our Pennsylvanian protagonists? You'll have to wait...and yeah, yeah, I know, I'll have to get writing, to find out! Until next time, thank you for sticking with me and so faithfully reading!