Since I made you all wait so long, I'm going to keep these (at least the top ones) punchy and to the point. The battle rages on, our cast of characters all locked in struggles to the death, there's an indulgence in a secret habit, deep soul searching, and for some reason I hear Eurobeat in the background... Let's do this!
. . .
Following the sounds of battle and heading for the loudest noise, Naota knew he was close. On the uphill run past the Chinese Wall, and the Mud Church, he was nearly flattened by oncoming traffic. A dozen or so trucks all peppered with holes and laden to dangerous overcapacity with I.P.A. barreled around the corner at breakneck speed. None stopped to so much as say hello, but bee-lined for the bridge over The Red Moshannon into Chester Hill.
"Well. Okay then." Naota checked himself for tire tracks or damage from slipstream winds. "Never mind, forget I asked." Further up the hill he went, nearly in sight of the Y.M.C.A. There he heard a familiar and welcoming sound: the clattering and clanking racket of tank tracks. Into view rumbled an ORGASMATRON looking rather haggard than when he'd left it that morning. Half its sandbags were gone, and the armor was pockmarked into a miniature moonscape. Johnny, Josh, Mike, and Rig were all riding at eyeball defilade and raised hands out their hatches to wave. Naota thumbed them to a stop and he climbed up the front slope; avoiding stepping on Josh's head on the way.
"Naota! My man! HUAGH-TH-HWACK." Rig spat a well chewed cud of tobacco to the street. They looked at each other with exhausted eyes. "How the fuck are yah?"
"How the fuck am I? I need a nap."
Mike stood up to name tag height in his hatch and inspected Naota for obvious bullet holes. Seeing none, he added: "Don't we all need a nap? I can promise you this: tonight's gonna be the best sleep of your life."
"And tomorrow's gonna be one've your absolute worst mornings." Johnny added an experienced warning.
"So what've you been up to my dude? You look…" Rig took in the rust red bandage on Naota's left thigh, his bloodstained hands, arms and uniform. "Thoroughly entertained."
"Ah, well, you know how it goes." Naota sat on the turret roof between the hatches. "It's been a day, a day indeed; let me tell you. I've been shot at, Shifty gave me N.O., he fought an M.I.B. and I had to tape his chest shut so he could breathe, I had a fight with Canti while on N.O. and had to hit him with my guitar…"
"YOU DID WHAT TO WHO?!"
"Ow, hey, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa! Easy, easy there Lieutenant!" Kitsurubami clawed her way up Rig's legs and uniform, forcing herself into the hatchway between Rig's legs. She seized Naota by his carrier's shoulder straps and began violently shaking him.
"What did you do that to Canti for?!" She demanded, determined to rattle his neck broken. "He's a good robot, he'd never hurt anyone! Why'd you go and hit him with a guitar?!"
"The… Man in Black, stop shaking me, gave some kind of… Lieutenant please, sleeper cell activation… thing…and he… my neck is fracturing… attacked me… you're gonna kill me… but he… survived and if fine now!"
"Okay, okay Lieutenant, that's quite enough." Rig pulled Kitsurubami off Naota and pinned her arms. "Please do not kill my friend."
"You'd better apologize to Canti for beating him up." Kitsurubami pulled her arms free and scowled with stone melting intensity. "And I'll never let you live it down if you don't. Consider this an order."
"Alright, I didn't want to do it. I'll talk to him soon as I get home today."
"Hey, yo: Larry, Moe, Curly." Josh had been monitoring the radio. "You wanna wrap this up? We need to be movin' on."
"Absolutely correct, Master Copenhaver! Lieutenant, if you would please?" Kitsurubami eased herself off Rig into the turret again; seething venomous glares at Naota all the way down. "And Naota, if'in you've no other engagements or appointments, or gentlemanly duties to attend… the Fifty Cal' is all yours. Remember how to run it?"
"Top cover up, feed arm up, belt in, brass to the grass, feed arm down, top cover down, charging handle all the way back and forward, all the way back and forward, two thumbs way, way up, and hold on."
"You got 'er buddy." Rig thumbed up before dropping into his hatch. Naota stood on the engine deck behind the turret and laid his AK on the roof among Rig's other tools of trade. Before he closed his own hatch, Mike handed Naota a spare headset. Naota donned the headset, turned on and tuned in as Rig requested updates. "Okay Josh, what'd I miss, what's goin' on, what's happenin'?"
"All forces are being pulled from Philipsburg per Tommy's order." Josh sounded concerned and amused. "Osceola's falling faster than planned so everyone north of G&R is being sent south to help stem the tide."
"You got any good news?" Meanwhile Johnny had wheeled them into the middle of town proper, across the street from city hall. Here they idled alone with no friend or foe; only the empty pedestals of the Revolutionary War memorial for company. Naota suddenly felt foolishly exposed, standing unprotected and unshielded on the tank's engine deck.
"Nothing yet. For now, we are to hold fast and wait for orders."
"Roger that. Johnny, kill the engine." The tank shuddered for a moment then went silent. It was an odd feeling, standing on top of a tank in the middle of a park he had spent several afternoons lounging in. What a strange turn of life…
"Slight update." Josh broke the quiet. "Tommy wants a quick look around, says there is a unit unaccounted for that was supposed to be in one of these buildings. Call sign Papa-Five-Seven."
"Okay, Johnny, Josh stay here and guard the tank." Rig started to pull himself out of his hatch and undid the straps holding in his shotgun. "Lieutenant, Naota, Mike, we'll take a walk. Be back in ten." They dismounted the tank and Rig handed Kitsurubami his shotgun for her to carry while he, Naota and Mike had their rifles. "We'll each take a street. Go out no farther than three blocks or five minutes, whichever is first. Then turn around and come back. Holler if you see anyone. Got it?"
"Got it." The split and each took a road, walking quietly down the deserted sidewalks and boarded up storefronts. For a moment Naota thought it felt a slight bit like hunting, except an urban jungle instead of forest, and their quarry also shot back. Never mind, bad example. Naota just focused on the task at hand, one step at a time.
. . .
Mana could feel her heart in her throat while she crept down the sidewalk; meek and quiet as a church mouse. This wasn't really her thing, urban house to house searches. If she were providing cover from atop city hall, that would have been merely one of her days that ended in y. But now instead of a rifle she had a shotgun with gritty friction tape on the grip and pump fore end, a shell rack on the receiver and butt-stock, a bandolier of buckshot hung over her shoulders, and had even been given a bayonet of all things to latch onto the end. She had done so of course, since it would be foolish not to have that available in close quarters, but it was not the kind of combat she was used to; and it was such a wicked, cruel looking blade that was razor sharp. Odds were still good that she wouldn't need it and didn't worry too much about it; instead worrying if there were any of her opposite numbers watching her through a scope.
One building she came across had its door thrown open and broken glass littered the alcove. She backed up to read the storefront lettering: Bagatini's Quality Music Merchandise. And the door was open. Someone might be inside. Crunching on glass she entered, shotgun up and bayonet thrust out. Someone had come through and there was a small blood trail on the floor. She followed it through the store to its back alley rear entrance; another door busted open. The blood trail exited into the alley and petered out. To be thorough she swept the store one more time, finding a side room that looked like it was used for recording, lessons, or perhaps demonstrating products. Set up in the middle of it was a drum kit.
This siren song pulled on her and she lowered the shotgun to have a look. An extravagant five-piece kit, it must have been set up for a recording. The music stand with sheets on it was still next to the seat, or throne as it was properly called. It had been weeks now since she had been able to properly play… no, she had a job to do. This was not the time nor place… maybe, if she just sat down. That would tide her over. With the shotgun on her shoulder, she gingerly sat upon the throne and fit her feet to the pedals. Ahhhh… that's the good stuff. And look, someone had left sticks just lying on the snare. Wasn't that convenient? She took them up, swishing through the air and stopping just shy of the heads. There was still a lot of gunfire and explosions in the distance as the fighting still raged elsewhere. Maybe, in theory of course, mind you, just an idea, if she just played one little thing, her noise might just, maybe, possibly, probably… would blend into the background. No, better not… ting… she tapped one of the crash cymbals. In her head still played the music from earlier, Judas Priest's cavalcade of pummeling drums. No, no, no… she really shouldn't…
. . .
One street over from Kitsurubami, I could hear the faintest of weird sounds; which for that day was saying something. It was like someone was trying to play the drum part of a heavy metal concert; but at only five percent power. Just over the background noise I could hear something that went: bang-bang-bah-bang-bang, bah-bang-bang, bah-bangbangbangbangbang… while… yes, cymbals crashed, and yep, I'm hearing that right…I think it's… yep, that's two bass drums kicking at double speed… Then it stopped, paused, and started again; giving me a better read on it.
'That's, that's the opening drums for Painkiller, the song… faster than a bullet… terrifying scream… enraged and full of anger, he's half man and half machine…" I softly sang it to myself while crossing the street. There was a gap between two buildings with a wooden gate that I can just squeeze through. Someone or something on the other side of this row was making music and that was way too weird to not investigate. "Rides the metal monster… breathing smoke and fire… closing in with vengeance soaring hiiiggghhh…" Through the alley it was obvious now the sound was coming from Bagatini's. Was someone in there? This was Kitsurubami's street to cover and I didn't see her anywhere on it. "He… is… the Painkiller… This… is… the Painkiller…"
The door was broken open, and there was blood on the floor. Uh-oh, not good. I picked up my radio mic and called for Kitsurubami. If she were wounded or in there with someone that had been wounded, it would be great to know either way before I just barged in. As soon as I made my call, immediately the music stopped. There were a few seconds of awkward static and I prompted her again.
"Kitsurubami, report in. What's your status?"
"Status is… A-Okay." There was a sudden and great clattering series of crashes inside Bagatini's and the rolling wind-down of a cymbal spinning on the floor. "Belay my last." I entered the store, gun at half ready. From the recording studio door out popped Kitsurubami; looking embarrassed and distressed.
"You okay?" I lowered my gun and went to look into the studio. She held up her hand and bade me stop.
"You… really ought not look in there. It's a, there is rather, a uh, huge mess in there." She explained and quickly drew the door shut. "Utter travesty, unfit for Human eyes."
"Did you knock over Mister Bagatini's drum kit?" If things weren't already bad enough for my reputation that the Dairy Queen was destroyed, now my musical equipment supplier's pride and joy was, probably, in pieces. "You didn't."
"…I… tripped." She wouldn't look at anything but the floor.
"Uh…huh. You tripped. Well…" I looked at the broken in front and back doors, and the trail of blood on the floor. There were going to be a lot of bigger problems for Bagatini than his drums getting knocked over. "I'm inclined to believe you, but… then where was the music coming fr…?"
"OG hailing Carson, come in." Josh called from the tank. "Carson, come in."
"Go ahead, OG." Kisurubami and I went to the front door to see if he was calling about anything on the road.
"New orders came down."
"On our way." We started jogging back to the tank. "Oh, Lieutenant?"
"Yes?!" She looked like she was halfway through a sigh of relief.
"Did you hear that music playing earlier? It sounded like it was coming from Bagatini's, was that you?"
"Oh that! I was messing with the controls in that studio. There was a stereo I accidentally turned on."
"If you say so…" Bagatini's didn't have a stereo that could crank out that kind of volume for me to hear it across two streets and a row of buildings… but we'll put a pin in that for now. Much more pressing things on hand.
. . .
"Naota, back to the tank." Rig called for all hands to return. Naota jogged back and climbed onto the engine deck again as Mike closed his hatch and Rig put away his shotgun.
"What's the word?" He asked, leaning on the M2HB.
"We're about to find out." Rig plugged in his intercom. "Josh, you have good news; right?"
"Of course, I do." Josh's sarcasm was thick through the intercom. "We, as in this tank, have been ordered to act as rear guard. The infantry will get over the bridge, ready it for demo, and blow it once we're across."
"Johnny, he made that up; didn't he?"
"'Fraid not. But given that, T.C., I'd like to make a request. We are going to be running and gunning."
"What request would that be, Driver?"
'What request would Johnny want?' Naota wondered and tightened his hold on the M2's spade grips. His eyes wandered over to the loudspeaker on the turret. 'Hmmm… maybe…'
"I request that we engage Tactical Eurobeat."
"Permission is… granted. Engaging Tactical Eurobeat now. Roof." Rig addressed Naota.
"Y-yeah?"
"Hold. On. Driver, move out, full throttle!"
. . .
"…immons! We…" The world was dark and muffled while slowly coming back to focus. "…think he's alive!"
"Huuuaawwhoooaaa…" Patrolman Hynen came to with a headache that put all his hangover's past, present and future to shame. "Wha…what happened?" A canteen was put by his mouth, which felt like he'd swallowed a pound of cotton. Draining the canteen, his internals started coming back online. "What happened to me?"
"You took an HE tank round, that's what." Sergeant Simmons explained. He traced through the air Hynen's flight path. "There's the crater, its blast picked you up, off the wall, then onto the MRAP roof, and then right here on the pavement. You're lucky to be alive."
"No dis'spect Serg'nt…" Hynen was hauled standing and helped towards a truck tailgate to sit. "But I don't feel all that lucky. I mostly feel like I've had the shit beat outta me."
"Here's this for perspective. You had your back-plate in." Sergeant Simmons dropped the rectangle of steel and ceramic on the tailgate next to Hynen. Its spall covering was shredded and sticking out of it was a piece of metal the size of his palm. "Some guys don't bother with 'em; don't want to be slowed down with the extra weight. But yours saved your life; or at least paralysis and being a vegetable for the rest of your days. You're very lucky."
"Ho-lee-shit. You weren't kidding." Patrolman Hynen inspected the plate and the body side. The shrapnel had just poked through and was stopped by his trauma pad. "I outta get this thing framed, or mounted, laminated or something, and keep it in my living room. That is amazing… and distressing."
"Put it in the MRAP and you can take it home; not like the department can use it again. While you're there, pull a spare plate and get ready. We're moving south into town." Everyone else began readying to move. Hynen started towards the MRAP but felt oddly out of sorts; aside from his concussion. Something was missing.
"Aye, Hynen!"
"S'up?"
"Your rifle." Another officer tossed him his M16A4, dustier and scuffed than when the day had started. But the sights still switched on and, cycling the bolt and dry firing, everything still worked. Now he felt himself fully back with rifle in hand. A cleanup crew was then selected to ensure the school was completely clear. Patrolman Hynen rode in the column of rolling armor into town. Fighting seemed to have tapered off, at least in Philipsburg. Random odd shots popped off in the distance. Otherwise all the action sounded miles south in Osceola Mills. There sounded like a battle of thunderstorms.
"What'd I miss while I was out? What's going down in Osceola Mills?"
"Y'didn' miss much." The officer next to him shook out a pack of Camel 99's and lit up. "That tank rolled up, shot the shit outta us, most've those assholes in the school ran out the back, then the whole bunch fucked off. Good riddance…" The State Trooper stopped to smoke. "Now, in Osceola they've been having from what I've heard, one fuuuuck of a bad day. The terrain's made it so they've been going uphill this entire time. Plus, I've heard they've had every bridge in front of 'em blown up. They must've caught a break somewhere 'cause their last report made it sound like they're making better progress."
"Yeah, sure they are. Have they had to fight any tanks down there?"
"Not as far's I've heard. And while we're on that."
One of the D.R.S. contractors riding in the truck threw in his displeasure. "I too would like to know where the ever-loving fuck that metal monstrosity came from! It took out four, four of our vehicles over at, oh… what's its… by the, what do you locals call it… by the ice cream place. Frosty King?"
"That's Dairy Queen to you, hireling; over at Cold Stream Dam."
"I'll ignore that, but that's the place. That tank ambushed my buddy's convoy as they came around the hill." The D.R.S. used his hands to lay out the battlefield. "…and after knocking them out, slinging shells and machine gun fire like a pillbox on tracks, they just up and left!"
"The nerve." Officer Camel 99 was indignant. "Picked a fight and didn't have the decency to stick around?"
"I know!" This D.R.S. squad had found a sympathetic set of ears. "What kind of lily-livered…"
Patrolman Hynen interrupted the diatribe before it got up to speed. "Hey, shut up for a second."
"What is…?"
"SHUSH." Over the talk and trucks, Hynen heard something that didn't jive with the background noise. It was so out of place he almost didn't believe his own ears. Then the shadow of déjà vu slowly rolled over him. "Do any of you hear that?"
"Hear what…ohhh…" For an unrelated reason the convoy halted.
"Is…" State Trooper Camel 99 had stopped smoking to hear better. "Is that… is that fuckin' Eurobeat?"
"Nah, nah… it couldn't be." The D.R.S. dismissed before his eyes widened and voice opened to shout "Holy shit: TANK!"
From behind a row of houses, careening at top speed, the same tank as before skidded sideways into view. Not slowing to make its turn, the tank's main gun fired and put out of action the lead vehicle's engine with a hellish screech of wrecked parts. As soon as it had arrived, receiving no shots in retaliation, the tank ducked behind another row of houses; music blaring from a turret mounted loudspeaker.
*Takumi, bring me to the top!
Running like a fox! Ai, ai-ai-ai!
You can fly, you can be so magic!
Drive me as you know! Ai, ai-ai-ai!
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon Baby!
Try to run with me now!
C'mon, c'mon, you'll never surrender!
Are you ready to fly-iai-iai-iai-iai?!
"There it is! Fire, FIRE!" Once again, the tank emerged with all guns blazing. Somewhat ready this time, a barrage of small arms cut loose. Undeterred the tank blew a truck's rear wheels off and once more bounded out of sight.
Takumi! Takumi! Whoa-whoa-whoa!
You've got to be a Star!
Take on me, Takumi!
All the time, you put the fire on me!
On the third appearance seconds later, the grenadiers got their M203's into play and launched 40mm HE's at their elusive tormentor. Brilliant flashes and dust clouds bloomed, that the tank drove through with only scratched paint. Hitting the column's rear, the main gun and a roof mounted fifty caliber machine gun eviscerated the trailing truck. Bedlam and mayhem achieved, the tank crew ignited a smokescreen and peeled off into the oil grey bank. It would not escape so readily.
"All units, all units please respond." The call went over the general net; in the old fashion. Some habits die hard. "10-50PD Hit and Run with armored vehicle in Slabtown Park neighborhood. Shots fired, multiple officers down. Pursuit in progress. All suspects armed and extremely dangerous. Eliminate suspects with extreme prejudice."
Individual vehicles whirled around and fanned out in practiced coordination. They were hoping to surround and box the tank in. What they were lacking in firepower they would make up for in speed, maneuverability, and numbers. And with its main cannon thundering, machine guns clattering, and loudspeaker thumping, this suspect would be easy to track down.
Takumi, freedom as the wind…
Take me where you've been, Ai, ai-ai-ai!
You can shine, when the people watch you.
Driving like a star, Ai, ai-ai-ai!
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon Baby! Try to run with me now!
C'mon, c'mon you'll never surrender!
Are you ready to fly-iai-iai-iai-iai?!
Takumi! Takumi! Whoa, whoa, whoa! You got to be a star!
All the time, you put the fire on me!
Takumi! Takumi! Whoa, whoa, whoa! You got to be a star!
Take on me, Takumi!
All the time, you put the fire on me! *
. . .
On first impression thirty-two miles an hour does not sound that impressive. Naota Nandaba would tend to disagree. His only anchors were the M2HB's spade grips as Johnny guided the careening ORGASMATRON through the narrow streets of Philipsburg. Some turns were so severe that Natoa's feet left the engine deck and only an iron grip kept him from flying off. It was then he concluded Humans were never designed to go this fast. Still he clung onto the M2HB and put it to his best use as targets presented. Anchored as it was in the anti-aircraft mount, the M2HB was still half as contentious with its operator as enemies. It rumbled, rocked, clanked and clanged, trying to rattle Naota's teeth loose and his arms into gelatin. But what a weapon it was! This gun didn't put holes in things, or holes through things, it removed chunks of things and threw these on the ground; and someone was going to need shovels, buckets, and wheelbarrows to clean up the mess. Yet while they were raising an excellent Hell, giving the infantry ample time, and the music still rolled, the ORGASMATRON crew began to feel like they were getting boxed in.
**Night of Fire…
Night of Fire…
Welcome to the Broken Low!
Welcome to the famous disco live!
Come on Lady, come and go!
Come on Lady, get me once and right!
"TC, they're getting too close to us!" Naota took advantage of a straight section of street to reload. The last rounds of the belt had left an RG-31 crippled, smoking and on its side; and crew hiding in basement window wells of the nearest house. Both vehicles had surprised the other by taking a blind corner at the same time. But now the RG-31's fellows had moved from their one or two block distance to engaging at point-blank range.
"We're gonna be out of gas soon, too." Johnny let them know they had less than a quarter of their fuel remaining. "Unless you want to run dry this side of Red Mo'?"
"No thank you, Sir!" Rig opened his hatch, standing rifle out first, to survey the area. Shots cracked around their heads as pursuing police fired in the gaps between houses. Looking first at the smoke columns of burning vehicles, then the deep ruts their tracks had carved in several front lawns, down at their own vehicle, and finally at Naota, Rig gave a sort of 'what do you think?' look. To which Naota, too busied trying to hold on for dear life, shrugged back a 'looks good enough to me'. Rig nodded in agreement and pressed his intercom. "I reckon we've done enough damage to the property tax rates for today. Lady and Gentlemen, let us retire." Now they raced down Presqueisle Street for the last standing bridge to home and safety.
Night of Fire, you've better, better stay!
You've better, better begin the prayer to play!
Night of Fire, come over, over me!
Come over, over the top, you've never been here…
Night of Fire, you've better, better stay!
You've better, better begin the prayer to play!
Night of Fire, come over, over me!
Come over, over the top, you'll have a Night of Fire!
You'll have a Night of Fire!**
. . .
Bewildering as it was, the tank's music made an excellent echo-locator. Patrolmen Hynen's best guess was it was a few blocks out at best; and closing fast. He and his squad had no AT4's and had learned the hard way 40mm HE was useless. Their only hope would be to stop the tank this side of the river, swarm it, and either disable it or kill the crew. And apparently that had been attempted and failed once that day already. But this was not the time nor place to shirk from duty; no matter how insurmountable the task. Patrolman Hynen and his comrades had their orders to carry out; or die trying.
They had beaten the tank to the last intersection before the bridge. Now they set about making this choke point impassable. Hynen bade the squad disembark their truck and take up positions astride the road. He then directed the truck to park across both lanes of the road at its narrowest. This left only the sidewalks and front porch stairs available for passage; far too narrow for the tank's bulk. They then huddled behind the stoutest cover they could find and waited. Soon the tank's sound heralded its approach.
***Get out of my head…
Get out of my heart…
Away Baby, I won't fall apart…
Get out of my head…
Get out of my heart…
Away Baby, I won't fall apart…
Around the corner the tank came, sparks flashing on its treads as it scratched for traction on the smooth asphalt. Patrolman Hynen gave the order to commence firing with everything they had. The tank crew responded in kind: Bow, Coaxial, and Roof machine guns, and the TC and Loader opened their hatches to contribute with rifles. The two sides desperately dueled: an unstoppable 33-ton tank on a collision course with an immovable brake-locked 5-ton truck wedged between sidewalks.
You really made a mess of me… (No Baby, don't deny it…)
A ghost of my nights so sweet… (I will forget about it…)
Your love like a nail in deep… (But now it's healin' away…)
You let me here to bleed…
I'll mend alone this bitter feelin'!
I'll fight the fears! And dry my tears!
Won't try anymore, Oh! Never, no more…
The words so pure, they're punching bold!
And starting to blow!
. . .
Over the automatic reports of five firing firearms, S. Sergeant Carson managed to shout out a course correction. "Driver, this way's no good! We'll have to re-route!"
"No, we won't!" 1st Sergeant Shaw insisted. Lieutenant Kitsurubami, having zero control over the issue, listened in but kept her focus on the coaxial sights and trigger. It was difficult to maintain composure though as they approached the point of no return at increasing speed.
"There isn't enough room!"
"More than enough; trust me!"
"On your honor!" 1st Sergeant Shaw began snaking the tank left and right while pouring on the throttle. Each snap change in tack grew more severe than the last, and the vehicle began to rock from one set of tracks to the other. If 1st Sergeant Shaw wasn't careful, he was going to put ORGASMATRON on its side and set it rolling over and over down the hill and into the river. Mana's basic trust of fledgling alliances could only go so far.
"T.C., are you sure…"
"Johnny knows what he's doing." S. Sergeant Carson said with solemn conviction. So ended the discussion.
Get out of my Head! Get out of my heart!
Away Baby, I won't fall apart!
Get out of my Head! Get out of my Heart!
I'm telling you I… Won't fall apart!
I'll smile again, run again!
No one else! NO-BODY! NOBODY!
Cheatin' me… Foolin' me… Like you did!
NO-BODY! NOBODY! NO!
. . .
'Good God Almighty…' Patrolman Hynen felt his M16's bolt lock open on an empty magazine. 'We can't stop them.' Everyone had blown through their weapon's magazine and there was a lull as they reloaded in near panic. The Sherman appeared on the razor edge of being out of control. Each wild turn put it heavily on one set of tracks and visibly eased the suspension on the opposite. With no room to stop without tragedy, the tank sought the gap between the truck's tailgate and a house front porch. This was the end of the tank's wild run. It would either smash into the truck and become entangled in the wreck and tip over, or it would slam its track into the concrete of the steps and break or throw the track; stopping it instantly if not rolling it. And yet, if he had not witnessed this event with his own eyes, Hynen would have struck soundly and with great, repeating force on the head whomever was telling the tale as punishment for trying to pass as truth such an obvious lie:
The tank's driver bade his machine to mount the sidewalk, then snapped a steering tiller hard back for just long enough to use the rolling motion he'd been building all down the hill. This put the tank with one track on the ground and the other in the air, so it drove over the top of the porch stairs; the porch that Patrolman Hynen was standing on. Thus, the tank, named "ORGASMATRON" on the main cannon, merely sideswiped the rear end of the M939 instead of plowing into it bow first. It also crushed the steps under its weight instead of crashing into them and ripped the front wood and screen windows of the porch right off; hardly an impediment to its rampage. And as the metal monstrosity forced its way past him, Patrolman Hynen saw something, or someone rather, more surprising still: hanging half out of the commander's hatch, battle gear stained with sweat, blood, and vomit, bellowing his lungs out to the earsplitting music, and aiming a large revolver at him… was Jeffrey Carson.
I'll fight the fears, and dry my tears…
Won't try anymore… Oh! Never, no more!
The words so pure, they're punching bold!
And starting to blow!
The wind blew out of Patrolman Hynen's lungs as a 0.357 Magnum bullet struck his armor plate. It did not penetrate the composite and steel barrier, but the blow landed right over his solar plexus and took his breath away.
Get out of my head! Get out of my heart!
Away Baby, I won't fall apart!
Get out of my head! Get out of my heart!
I'm telling you I… Won't fall apart!
I'll smile again, run again!
No one else! NO-BODY! NOBODY!
Cheatin' me! Foolin' me! Like you did!
NOBODY! NOBODY! NO! NO…No…No…no…
Still on his feet, Hynen watched with flickering eyes as the tank rocked back onto both tracks and speed off across the bridge. It had just cleared to the opposite shore when a hidden but observing I.P.A. demolition team blew their charges. A great blast of fire and flame whipped up an even greater wave of stinking water, showing rust red everyone in the splash zone. In the brief quiet blasted into being, there was a creaking groan. The M939, tipped to a precarious angle by the tank's forced passing by, slowly succumbed to gravity and the hill's slope, and rolled onto its side with an exhausted crush of bent steel. And so, the tank ORGASMATRON made its escape into Chester Hill. Behind it left a smashed 5-ton truck, a rain of bridge parts, and the echoes of thudding, fading, Tactical Eurobeat:
Get out of my head! Get out of my heart!
I'm telling you I… Won't fall apart!
I'll smile again, run again!
No one else! NO-BODY! NOBODY!
Cheatin' me! Foolin' me! Like you did!
NO-BODY! NOBODY! NO! NO…No…No…no…no…
Get out of my head… get out of my heart…
Away Baby, I won't fall apart…
Get out of my head… get out of my heart…
Away Baby, I won't fall apart…***
. . .
On the south slope of the Carson Property hill, the runway within rifle shot, the I.I.B. and Auxiliary fought a battle to the bayonet, to the hilt, in the hilly, rocky forest with the police and D.R.S. Here pistols, shotguns, and Naota-Haruko pattern rifles were holding the line; knives, bayonets, hatchets and tomahawks, machetes, shovels, and even the plentiful stones hurled with enough force, filling in when things got too close. But here the combined police and mercenary momentum began to falter. The mountain's steepness had been increasing all through Osceola Mills, and here it was nigh vertical only a quarter of a mile short of their goal. So steep the mountain had become, police and mercs found themselves shooting almost upwards and climbing on their hands and knees; and unable to do both simultaneously. Their vehicles could not follow any further and were only able to offer marginal support or harassing cover fire at best; if the trees weren't too thick. Sensing his enemy was running out of steam, Commander Amarao sought to drive them with haste down into the valley. To this end he summoned his radioman.
"Any Auxiliary Guns, any Auxiliary Guns, this's Oscar-Mike! Do any Auxiliary Guns copy?!"
Pulled back from the road and set up to guard the driveway with interlocking fire, both guns were already on the radio and itching to blast something, someone, anything. "This's Aux-Guns One and Two, Oscar-Mike, whatcha need?"
"I need supporting fire on these coordinates." Amarao spread his topographical map of the area across his knee and located his own position. "Fire on…"
"Break! Break! Break! Oscar-Mike! We can't fire through the mountain!" The gunnery crews, at the Auxiliary Camp, were blocked by the mountain's peak between themselves and Amarao. And even if that weren't the case, these had been set up as dual-purpose field and anti-tank guns; not mortars or high angle fire. "We might get a flanking shot if we reposition; that'll be at least fifteen minutes."
"No time for that. Wait one, standby." Amarao wracked his brain and tried to remember his mental pictures of around G&R Fabrication. 'Need to angle the guns, need to get them elevated, need something steep and adjustable… dump trucks.' He picked up the radio mike. "Aux-Guns, you still with me?"
"You've got something, let's hear it."
"Do you see the dump trucks by that machine shop garage?"
"I do, I do indeed. Give us five minutes."
"Three, and I start calling coordinates." While Amarao held onto his mountainside perch, Aux-Guns 1 and 2 repositioned. Frantic calls for assistance drew a crowd large enough to hoist by hand the guns into the back of the dump trucks. Once in and their outriggers unfolded and locked, the truck's gates were latched closed. Then the trucks were fired up, the guns cranked to max elevation to clear the dump bed, and the beds slowly raised skyward. The guns outrigger arms rested on the gate of the dump beds. It was not known if the gate latches would hold against the recoil, but there was no time for proper testing. Ballistic charts were sketched on the metal walls of the dump beds with soapstone and a mason's plumb line was hung to track rough angles. Drawing out and double-checking shell weight, muzzle velocities, and factoring in differences of elevation with their own topographical maps, the gun crews were ready to put rounds downrange.
"Fire two rounds spotting at Echo-Four-Four, stand by for adjustment." Amarao deliberately called for shots in the next sub-grid over in case the gun crew's math was off. He had faith it wasn't but would not find out the hard way. Better the shells land on an empty house than his head.
"Shots out. Standby, twenty seconds." An agonizing eternity later, four hundred yards to his front, Amarao saw two shells explode like lightning strikes precisely where he'd asked. A split-second pause ensued as a shift in the wind washed over the mountainside. Amarao wasted no time appreciating this feeling.
"Excellent shots. Gun One, drop two hundred, left fifty, one-hundred-meter spread. Gun Two, drop one hundred, right fifty, one-hundred-meter spread. Fire for effect!"
"Rounds on the way! Shots are out!" In the span of a minute twenty 3-inch shells dropped into the forest at danger close to Amarao's line. The gun crews fired as fast as they could, using a "shell brigade" to toss fresh rounds up into the dump trucks. After the first minute, a rate of one round every six seconds, the rate slowed to one round every fifteen seconds to avoid burning out the barrels or cooking off a round. Amarao stayed on the radio to walk rounds downhill for harassing the retreating mercenaries and police. These foes had fought so valiantly to come so far and so close, but they were in neither position nor mind to suffer plunging and accurate artillery fire. They had proven themselves, but 3-inch shells exploding trees, bursting car sized boulders and starting rock slides, filling the air with so much shrapnel and splinters you'd need to bring your own oxygen supply, was all one outcropping of shale too far. So the police and D.R.S. allowed the I.P.A. to keep the mountaintop airfield… for now. His enemy driven off, Commander Amarao radioed for orders. Between firing his own rifle, fending off an attack on Rushtown Mining down on the Yamaha Trail, Captain Carson requested Amarao return to the airfield for debriefing, resting and refitting, and congratulations for a job well done.
"Throw in some extra loaves of that Nandaba bread for my men, and I'll consider the invitation." Commander Amarao gave the signal to begin forming up and marching back.
"I will speak to Shigekuni personally; consider it done. You have more than well earned it. I can't begin thanking you enough."
"You can thank me by winning this and getting me off this planet…but Shigekuni's bread will do for now. Oscar-Mike over and out."
"See you at debrief. Papa-Actual, over and out."
. . .
Their truck hit-and-run and rolled on its side, Patrolman Hynen and his mixed band of state troopers and mercenaries dragged themselves back to the elementary school on foot. Cranky and exhausted with the leading edges of horrible headaches oncoming they stopped to rest on the shot-out remains of an I.P.A. gun truck; parts still smoldering in the school's parking lot. They waited for someone with an empty vehicle to give them a lift. Meanwhile they watched a squad of badly wounded I.P.A. be dragged out of the school. Seven in all, they were covered in blood and brick and drywall dust; looking like they'd been dug out from a pile of rubble. A mix of four Sheriff's deputies and five Osceola Mills P.D. guarded them with confused unease. What to do with these seven wounded enemies?
"Hey-oh, Hynen!" One of the mercenaries was getting along with a state trooper like they were old friends.
"Yah?"
"Take our picture with this truck." They each held out a phone. "Y'know, for the scrapbook!"
"Hold still…" Each man held his weapon aloft and put a foot on the truck's bumper. They looked like two safari hunters posing with a taken wildebeest. "Done, and… done. There yah go."
"Cool, cool, thanks! Hey, you got your phone; want one?"
"Nah, I'm… I'm okay." Several other trucks pulled in and offloaded their passengers. One of them was The Man in Black; a strange white tube or cast on his left arm; and his hand on the arm was missing.
"Don't be like that! You kicked a lotta ass today!" The infectious smiles were hard to resist. "You gotta have at least one glamour shot; something to frame and show off when we've won!" Sensing that 'no' wasn't going to be taken, Patrolman Hynen dug into his assault pack. Somehow his phone had survived the trials of the day and still worked. A crack down the middle of the screen was its only damage. He handed it over and took a more modest pose: both feet on the ground, rifle cradled in his arms, and a peace sign flashed.
"What's with the hippy shit?"
"It's my goddam picture. Shut up and take it."
"Alright, geez, fine. There we go. Wanna do another? Maybe some action poses or…" The trooper read Hynen's answer on his face. "…Orrrr…maybe not. Let's go see if we can find a ride." To reach the trucks, they had to pass the guard squad and I.P.A. prisoners. On the way, The Man passed them to strike up a conversation with a guarding deputy. While waiting for a truck, phone hidden by his gloved palm, Hynen leaned on a light post base and half-listened in.
"Good evening, gentlemen!" The Man greeted in his usual irresistibly charming manner. "How do I find you on this fine day?"
"We're just fine, but mostly relieved; now that you're here."
"And why is that? What can I do for you? Oh, this? Never mind the hand; it's hardly even an inconvenience. Certainly, a good story, but for another time. Yes, yes, still only a hand. You were saying?"
"Right, well, we've got these guys here, that we've captured, and they're wounded…" The deputy trailed off and anxiously looked around for someone to tell him what to say or do.
"…And?" The Man pressed him.
"…Annnd, we don't know what we're s'posed to do." Another awful pause followed.
"Do in regard to what?"
"W-well, with them!" The deputy jerked his rifle muzzle towards the prisoners. "No one's told us what to do!"
"By The Priests…" The Man sighed. "Have you searched them? Checked them for weapons, radios, maps, specialist equipment? Do they have any unit markings or insignia? Have you tried questioning or interrogating them? Have you used your head for more than a stand to rest your helmet on?!"
"Beg pardon Sir, I'm awful sorry." The deputy and squad couldn't look each other in the eye, or The Man in the face. "I'm not good at this sorta thing. The detectives usually handle this." As they went back and forth, a sharp twinge of pain shot through Patrolman Hynen's leg. Whatever drug he'd been given in the morning was wearing off. A dull ache set in all over but was pronounced most as a stabbing, burning pain in the gunshot wound in his leg. Pressing on this with his phone holding hand helped a little bit. Then he heard more from the deputy.
"What the fuck do you want me to do with 'em? What?! Do you want me to just shoot 'em or something?"
"For the last time." The Man seemed in pain himself from his missing hand and looked like his patience with the deputy was up. "I will take one prisoner for my Research Team to look over. The rest I have no need for. Do with them however best that you deem fit."
"Just tell me what to do already!" The deputy demanded while The Man walked away. The Man stood along the road and flagged down an arriving truck. This one disgorged a squad of Red Star Marines. In stark black and faceless they wordlessly crossed the lot with The Man back to the prisoners. All crowds parted immediately to make way. The Man pointed out a prisoner and the Marines began securing the unfortunate man to a stretcher. The man began screaming for help, that someone, anyone, save him from being taken away by these alien men and having done to him unimaginable horrors. In his leg, Patrolman Hynen felt the pain grow worse yet. He looked down and saw himself on the cracked screen of his phone: eyes bloodshot, face pale and cast in odd shadow as the sun began setting and parking lights came on. The wounded 'volunteer' was still screaming and unable to get away because of his wounded legs. Final adjustments were made to his straps as he was wrangled onto the stretcher, and the Red Star Marines hoisted him on their shoulders. No one questioned their actions, let alone tried to stop them. The pain was cropping up across Patrolman Hynen's body and all the trauma he'd been inflicted over the day became known at once. Onset was so sudden and vivid that he felt sick to his stomach and felt his head swim. His reflection on his phone screen looked at least half as worse as he felt.
"Thanks for no favors!" The deputy called out as The Man and Marines placed their charge into their truck. Without further ado, they departed in a general easterly direction; towards Roman's Mining. Patrolman Hynen felt a small relief, thinking the matter over. He fiddled with the phone camera and settings, bringing up the video recorder to distract himself from his aches and pains. He started running the camera and recording the wreckage of what had been an elementary school, burned out and shot up cars, and the crowd of milling police and mercenaries. It was so different from when he had walked the school's halls. He didn't intend to keep the footage; he was just bored waiting for a ride. Then the deputy's voice broke in again.
"Alright, I've had enough of this bullshit. I'm fucking done. We'll just deal with this crap." The deputy's rifle came up from a slack carry to a low ready; butt stock on his shoulder. "Pick them up and move them over there." The rest of the squad grabbed the wounded I.P.A. by their equipment straps and dragged them over by the dumpster bay; a U-shaped concrete wall where the dumpsters would usually be. That day it was empty and filled with six wounded. The deputy and his squad were out of earshot now and Hynen couldn't hear their conversation. His camera still rolling, he brought the phone close into his chest and zoomed in, wondering what in the hell the deputy and his squad were doing. Answering his questions for him, the deputy and his squad raised their rifles, and each fired several shots into the wounded I.P.A.
Immediately several officers ran over to see what had happened; Patrolman Hynen sat frozen in horrified shock. The other officers were all shouting and trying to take rifles off the deputy and his squad. A moment passed and the excitement of the event faded. Rifles were not taken or handed back. The new group of officers seemed to be asking what had happened and a back and forth ensued, the deputy pointing at the bodies, then back up the road where The Man and Marines had departed. Another minute went by as the group hurriedly discussed what should be done, all glancing around and over their shoulders. Everyone around the school, scores in all, had either heard or seen the event and figured those over at the dumpsters responding to the shooting had it handled and went about minding their business. Finally, the group came to an accord. They made sure the now dead I.P.A. were all inside the dumpster bay walls, then closed and latched the doors. Seeming to consider the matter settled, the entire group dispersed into the rest of the milling crowds as if nothing of significance had passed.
It happened and was over so fast, Patrolman Hynen wondered for a moment if he had dreamed it. A throb of pain in his leg snapped him from his daze. He looked down at his phone, stopped the recording and closed the camera. What to do, what to do? Delete it? Probably should. Getting caught with something like this was more likely to end with him in the same dumpster bay; good troopers don't snitch on other troopers. On the other hand, he knew in his heart of hearts what he had witnessed was wrong. No way around or other means about it. Or was there? They weren't under the old rules anymore. Things were supposed to be done how they were in The Red Star of The Solar Federation. Would what he just saw fly on a Red Star controlled planet? The Man had seemed wholly indifferent and only kept one man for his Research Team. Patrolman Hynen looked down at his phone and its lock screen. Three girls with beaming faces smiled up at him, taken from last Christmas. The crack in his screen split the middle one in two, one half of her face slightly off from the other. What would they expect of him, have him do if they were in front of him; knowing what he knew? Would he be able to look them honestly in the eye when all of this was over? And lastly was the curious case of Jeffrey Carson. Patrolman Hynen touched the hole in his uniform where Jeff had shot him. He had explicitly told Jeff to leave town, get out of the state for an extended vacation. But today there he was, riding in a tank for the I.P.A. of all things! Nothing made sense anymore.
"Ride's here man, let's go." Someone tapped his shoulder. He stood and stumbled when putting weight on his right leg. His bandages now had fresh red splotches appearing. In hindsight, those pills they had been given may have been a curse in disguise. "You okay?"
"Obviously not… But I'll live." He gritted his teeth and swung himself around. "Hey, you see the, uh…" With a pointed nod, he motioned to the dumpster bay.
"That? What about it?" The other trooper dismissed with a wave of his hand. "All I see is trash where it belongs. C'mon, let's get a seat so we don't have to ride sitting on the floor." Slow walking his way to the trucks, Hynen snuck a look at his phone one last time. Why couldn't things be easy? Or, not even easy, why did things have to be hard? Join the state troopers, it will be a sweet gig, do twenty years and coast on the pension; get a side hustle as armed security. Nothing in the brochure about aliens, mercenaries, an invasion of his hometown, gunfights with former neighbors, and executing prisoners. What had he really signed on for? Was all this what he really wanted to be part of? Sure, there was the promised paradise once Earth was part of The Red Star of The Solar Federation… but didn't that sound a little too good to be true?
'…you don't strike me as a bad person. Just someone who's made bad choices.' The words of Agent Griggs floated up in his memory. 'You've been given a second chance, don't fuckin' blow it!' Hynen took his thumb off the delete button, locked his phone and stashed it in the deepest part of his assault pack.
. . .
*Takumi - NEO
**Night of Fire - Niko
***I Won't Fall Apart - Jager
Oh...oh no. That one started out nice and ended rather, unpleasantly to put it mildly. Nothing like some good ole' war crimes to spice things up! Of course the secret to committing war crimes and not getting punished for them is simple: Don't Lose. I suppose with The Red Star of The Solar Federation at your back you could be given to thinking you've already got your little county war in the bag; and all this story really is, is just a mop up operation. But for every tragedy, there is an opportunity for people to find who they really are; good or evil. Time can only tell.