>“Hammer 1, this is Zeus Actual, we are pulling back to the 2nd line of defense. Soviet Mi-28s are inbound from the North-Northeast; fall back over the Keller Bridge, and link up with the Chaparrals. They’ll give you air cover as you fall back. Priority targets are the T-80Us, and T-62s; hit them as they cross the bridge. You will provide cover fire for Anvil 1 as they fall back. Don’t let those commie bastards take any more American soil! Zeus out.” >“Driver! Reverse to the bridge! Gunner, fire at will, prioritize nearest first!” I ordered. The Abrams lurched back, as 125mm and 115mm AP rounds ricocheted off and slammed against the thick armor. On our left, Hammer 1-3, began to cook off, bursting into flames when hit by two AT-6 Spiral missiles, from a Mi-24. >“Lt. James is dead! Driver, get our ass in gear! Get us across that bridge, NOW!” I yelled. >“Yes sir! Moving now!” The Abrams’ turbine engine whined in response from being pushed to the redline. M2 Bradleys launched TOWs across the river and dumped 25mm AP downrange. Friendly 155mm artillery batteries rained high explosive behind us, along with several A-10 strafing runs, attempting to slow the Soviet charge. Through the commander’s periscope, I recognized the outlines of Mi-28s and Mi-24s rising above the setting sun as we drove over the bridge. Tracers flew, missiles streaked back and forth, smokescreens deployed on both sides of the river. Our ammunition rack only had 4 rounds left. We’ve been firing nonstop, as Anvil 1 was annihilated on the bridge. Ivan paid for those Americans though. Our Chaparrals shot down 3 of their Mi-28s, and another 4 of their Mi-24s. A makeshift supply vehicle rolled up to our position and started handing out 120mm rounds, TOW missiles, 150mm Shillelagh missiles, and 25mm AP and HE belts. As CPL. Morgan, our loader, was returning with more 120mm rounds, a Soviet LGB dropped by a MiG-23 obliterated the Bradley next to us and CPL. Morgan evaporated along with the Bradley. With an only a half load of 120mm ammunition, the radio crackled up again. >“All units, this is Zeus Actual. Retreat to Gridref 701839! I repeat, retreat to Gridref 701839! Olympia is lost! Those damn Reds got behind us! All units are to withdraw to RP Bravo! Zeus Out!” More explosions shook the Abrams, and Soviet 152mm HE rounds started to bombard our fortified position. Reversing out of our hull-down position, our armored section conducted a fighting retreat. Without a loader, our M1A1’s combat capability was significantly reduced; that didn’t matter much when we were retreating. En route to Oregon, the rally point, we were constantly harassed by SU-25 Frogfoots and MiG-23s, strafing our loosely organized convoy of armored vehicles. 2 Bradleys were mobility-killed, forcing us to abandon them, and an M60 was knocked out by a lucky rocket into its engine compartment. Whatever spaces were available were filled quickly by the crews of knocked out tanks. With nowhere else to fit inside, the remainder rode on top of the armor, exposed to enemy fire. Arriving in Portland, after 6 hours of constant aerial harassment, a National Guard base was a sight for sore eyes. We’d been up for more than 36 hours; everyone was too nervous to catch any sleep, and no one caught more than 15 minutes of rest. ------- F-15s conducted CAP around the Washington-Oregon border, warding off the harassing SU-25s and MiGs. They didn’t dare cross into Soviet-occupied territory, as AAA, Tunguskas, MANPADs, along with multiple tracked SAMs had already locked down the airspace surrounding Northeastern Washington. Soviet MiG-29s and Su-27s ruled Washington airspace, and earlier SEAD attempts were shot down with no survivors. There were still pockets of fierce American resistance trapped in Washington, but with no way to resupply them, they were cut off and surrounded by Reds. Despite this fact, they fought on. Guerilla fighters inspired by movies such as Red Dawn, and veterans of Vietnam, wreaked havoc behind enemy lines. The Soviets were wary of such fighters after their experience with Afghanistan and moved quickly to suppress the guerrillas. Day after day behind enemy lines, a BRDM or BTR was ambushed with an IED or a GAZ was hit with an AT4, or the Russian-controlled docks were hit with mortars. However, as much as they annoyed the Russians, the attacks started to dwindle slowly. ------- Hopping out of the turret, I inspected the tank. Frontally, the tank was covered in dents, with a few that penetrated the surface, but not the rest of the armor layer. Some kind of pink foam was oozing out from in between the layers of Chobham armor. I knew the armor was laminated, but foam? I didn’t care enough to inspect it, as I was happy to be alive, and it seemed to hold up well against combloc AP. The left tread skirt was completely blown away, and bits of shrapnel still stuck out of the side armor. One piece of shrapnel was about a foot long, probably from the nearby Bradley. The half of the right tread skirt was gone, and what remained of the skirt had 25mm holes in them. The coax 240 barrel was struck head-on by an AP round, which now could be used as a floral decoration in an art collector’s museum. The pintle mounted M2 Browning was completely gone, and the loader’s 240 was missing its receiver. The gunner’s sights were cracked in 3 places, and I found what appeared to be a 14.5mm AP core embedded inside the reinforced plexiglass. The driver’s viewports were struck by 25mm rounds, forcing him to turn out while retreating to Oregon, while still being strafed by SU-25 Frogfoots. The tank was mission-killed, but you can bet your ass that I’d still fight inside it against Ivan. Hearing footsteps behind me, someone called out my rank and name. I turned around, and a full-bird Colonel greeted me. I snapped into a salute. >‘Sir! 1SGT Anon of Hammer 1-2. We are green and ready to fight. Just tell us where!’ >‘At ease, son. Where’s the rest of Hammer and Anvil?’ >‘KIA, sir. Me, PFC Johnson, and Sgt. Hyde are the last remains of Hammer 1. We’re still good to go.’ I knew deep down that if we were to go out again, we’d probably go down with our tank, but I’d be damned if I didn’t take Ivan down with me. >‘In this condition? You’re in no condition to fight Ivan, and I’m not about to throw away your lives,’ After a short pause, he spoke again. >‘In fact, I need a commander. Sergeant, pack up your things. You’re headed for California. I’ll inform you en route. You’re in for surprise.’ >‘Sir, what about my crew? I can’t just leave them,’ I argued. >‘They’ll be transferred to Bannon’s platoon. I’m sure Bannon will take any reinforcements he can get ahold of.’ I was conflicted about leaving my crew behind, but orders are orders. Whoever this Bannon was, he probably needed them more than me. But why was I going to California? Surely I didn’t need R&R? >‘Yes sir. I’m ready to go.’ I replied. >‘Good man. Wheels up in 10. Get moving.’ >‘Sir.’ --- Aboard the C-130, I learned I was heading to California to field test a new experimental M1A1 Abrams, labeled ‘XM1A1E7’. Supposedly, this thing could turn the tide and halt Ivan. I was skeptical, but field testing a new experimental tank sounded cool as fuck. Despite having American origins, the XM1A1E7 had a Japanese nickname. On paper, the tank was exceptional. The eggheads had outdone themselves. Incorporating a 120mm smoothbore L/44 M256A1 autoloading cannon in an unmanned turret, they had welded ERA panels all over and put cameras on the roof mounted MG’s, allowing remote operation. They put something called an ‘Active Protection System’ on it, something I’d never even heard of. Supposedly, it shot down missiles that came within range of the tank with a wall of bullets. I thought I’d get assigned new crew along with the tank, but apparently, DARPA had put in some kind of Artificial Intelligence inside, meaning I was the supervisor needed. I wasn’t exactly too keen on working with a robot, especially if it turned on me or even worse, defected to Ivan. They assured me that I had overrides and that I’d be fine. In field testing, there were a few issues with the powerplant in the short time I had to get acquainted with the vehicle, but they were solved by allowing the engine to cool off after intense maneuvers. Overall, the tank was superb, in a league of its own. Soon after learning that Oregon was being overrun, High Command ordered us to deploy to the front line once more, and assist in an upcoming skirmish. We loaded up inside a C-141 Starlifter and began our long flight to the frontlines. ---Inside the Starlifter--- I reclined in my seat, anxiously waiting for the alarm that would signal the airdrop. >‘Paladin, huh? Not a bad callsign.’ I thought to myself. ‘If only I wasn’t so bored in here, alone. I wonder if DARPA programmed this thing to talk.’ I switched the AI on. I was greeted with a faint blue light, which flickered and died. >‘Huh? That didn’t happen before? What’s going on?’ I thought aloud. Red light flooded into the tank through the viewports as the jump light came on. I felt the tank lurch back, sliding down the ramp, before jerking violently to the rear. I experienced weightlessness as the tank was in freefall, and was pushed into my seat as the parachutes opened. As I landed, the AI housing started fritzing out, casting sparks all over the interior of the Abrams. >‘Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit!’ I yelled in frustration I ‘gently’ smacked the AI housing, hoping it’d fix itself. Otherwise, I’d be stuck in a steel coffin. The hatches wouldn’t unlock without the AI. Of course, my physical encouragement did nothing. >“Goddamn worthless piece of shit! Fuck! How am I supposed to get to the rally point now?” >“Commander, is everything alright?” said a quiet, timid voice from behind me. Spinning around in my chair, my eyes fell upon a beautiful female through a hatch that leads to the turret that wasn’t there before. She was dressed in M81 BDU, with a tanker helmet that obscured most of her blonde hair. Her bright blue eyes gazed at me with concern. ‘What the fuck’ was the first expression that came into my head. Luckily, I was composed enough to ask, >‘Who are you? What are you doing here? And how are you inside the turret?’ >‘O-oh! I’m Stephanie, Sir! I’m the loader!’ She said as she snapped a salute. >‘What? How even? You know what, I don’t even care anymore. I-’ I was cut short by a laugh coming from the turret, but not from Stephanie. Another female tanker poked her head from out of the hatch, obscuring Stephanie in the process. With a smug grin on her face, she introduced herself as Sara. >‘Yo! I’m Sara! I’m your gunner! Anything you want destroyed, just tell me!’ She smugly smiled at me, her bright green eyes glowing with egotistical pride. Before I had a chance to react, she disappeared from view, back into the turret. A third voice spoke from inside the turret. >‘Commander. I am your driver. Taylor. Pleased to meet you. Where is our destination?’ She said with nonexistent emotion. Not even as much as a glance at her either. Albeit confused, I simply accepted the situation for what it was. These were my new crew members, and I’d treat them as my own crew. >‘Driver, take us to Rally Point Foxtrot. Full speed.’ I ordered. What was I getting into? -------- We rolled to the rally point in silence. Upon arrival, I turned out in the driver’s hatch. The XM1A1E7 caught many stares from the infantry and looks of jealousy from the M60 and Bradley crews. >‘This is Paladin 1, standing by at rally point Foxtrot. Awaiting Orders.’ I radioed in. >‘Affirmative Paladin 1, good to see you arrived in one piece. Ivan’s got a Motorized AT Platoon ahead. You’re being tasked to assist Warhorse 2 in punching a hole in their line. Hellfire squadron has reported that there’s a Mechanized Company inbound to reinforce. Ensure they get an American welcoming party. Odin out.’ >‘Driver, form up on Warhorse 2. Leftmost side.’ I ordered. The quiet hum of the engine starting up again was the only response I got. >‘All units, this is Odin Actual. Bombardment has ceased. All units are to advance. I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake here. Make Uncle Sam proud. Odin out.’ With that, the quiet snowfall was interrupted by dozens of engines revving at once. >‘Driver. Forward, stay in line formation with the rest of Warhorse 2,’ I ordered. >‘Get that APS ready! Loader! Load HE! Gunner, prepare to fire!’ As a Bradley from Hoplite 1 crested over the hill in front of us, it was greeted by no less than 3 ATGMs; which blew the turret off - landing 20 feet away. Thankfully, the infantry had already dismounted and had crawled up the hill. Our turn to crest, we motored up, cresting the hill as friendly infantry lit up the town with their M60s, red tracers flying through the purple twilight. The wreck of the burning Bradley illuminated the nearby trees as green tracer streaks from PKMs returned fire. >‘Gunner! Light that diner up with coax! Bearing 357! 400 meters!’ I ordered quickly. >‘On it Sir!’ Sara yelled with enthusiasm. The rapid bursts of 7.62 from the 240 and the heavier ‘CHUG CHUG CHUG’ from the Browning reverberated inside the tank. I watched in amazing clarity through the commander’s periscope as our tracers flew into the diner, chewing through the brick and mortar. An especially brave (or stupid) Russian brought up an RPG with a PG-7VR warhead and was promptly ventilated by a dozen rounds of 7.62x51mm. >‘Gunner! Bring the Browning down 6 inches! Same target!’ My order was punctuated with a new burst from the Browning, a new line of tracers raking the brick diner with .50 BMG; a friendly M60A3 put a WP round into the diner, setting it aflame, and forcing the offending Russians out, who were quickly cut down by rifle fire from American infantry. Spotting a small flash from the peripheral of my view, an ATGM streaked towards us from a still intact hotel. >‘READY APS!’ The Metal Storm APS had already identified the 9M133 missile and locked onto it. Once within 50 meters, it fired a single burst at once, a wall of 5.56, which detonated the ATGM mid-flight. >‘Gunner! Blow a damn hole in that hotel with HE! Third window from the left, Fifth story! Bearing 003! 800 meters!’ I ordered quickly. >‘On the way!’ Sara yelled as a boom resonated, and sent a 120mm HE round towards the hotel. >‘Miss! Adjust 15 meters right, 5 meters down!’ I order. Within seconds, Stephanie’s voice signaled another round was ready. >‘Loaded!’ >‘Fire!’ I order. >‘On the way!’ The 120mm round entered through the window, shattering it, impacting the drywall in the room which detonated the HE shell. Through the periscope, I witnessed the detonation. The 120mm HE tore the room inside out, leaving a gaping hole in the hotel, initiating multiple secondary explosions, probably extra missiles for the launcher. Enemy BTR-80s rolled forward, out of the town, attempting to suppress the infantry in the treeline, but were quickly met by TOW missiles fired from Bradleys. After a few minutes, the intensity of fire died down; many Soviet soldiers retreating deeper into the city to escape the WP rounds fired by the M60A3’s and 25mm HE rounds from Bradleys. Warhorse 1 through 3 pushed into the town, as Hoplite 1 through 5 loaded infantry and held overwatch. We rolled into town, at the rear of the formation. Everyone was nervous. The road was narrow and claustrophobic for a tank crew. Urban tank warfare usually didn’t end well for the tanks. >‘Eyes up! Ivan’s in this town somewhere! We gotta hold this place til Hoplite gets here and they clear these houses. Watch those roofs.’ Warhorse 2-1 radioed over the net. >‘Gunner, get on the CROWS. I want that Mk.19 ready to unload on anything. Double check the APS is working correctly. I don’t want an RPG up my ass today.’ I order nervously. Not a minute later, a rooftop RPG struck the thin roof armor of the lead M60A3, Warhorse 2-1; which burst into flames immediately. >‘Gunner! Open up on the bastard!’ I yelled. >‘Gladly!’ Sara shouted back. The Mk.19 chugged for what seemed like a few seconds, sending a burst of 4 grenades arcing to the top of the building, throwing bits and pieces of flesh, metal, and gravel into the air. Over the radio, panicked tank commanders yelled, >‘AMBUSH! OPEN UP ON ANYTHING THAT MOVES!’ >‘CONTACT LEFT! CONTACT LEFT!’ >‘THERE! 12 O’CLOCK! HIT HIM!’ >‘RPG! SECOND STORY!’ Disorganised gunfire ensued, .50 BMG ripped into stores left and right, and the library had its door kicked in with a WP round. 105mm HE tore walls off buildings, and the occasional RPG flew into the armored column. >‘Gunner! Weapons free! Driver, Reverse! Get us off this road!’ I ordered. >‘On the way!’ Sara yelled, ecstatic. >‘Loaded!’ Stephanie shouted. The engine roared to life, reversing quickly. --- >‘All units, this is Odin Actual. Ivan’s Mechanized Division is arriving in 5 mikes. All armored assets are to head to the north and establish fortified positions. Hit them in the open ground. I don’t want to hear a single BMP getting through to the town. Odin out.’ >‘Sir, the town isn’t clear yet! We still need to finish securing the town!’ Warhorse 1 radioed. >‘Negative! If you don’t take out those BMPs, they’ll drop more infantry inside the town! Hoplite will clear the town. That’s final!’ >‘Yes Sir. Moving now.’ the M60A3 commander replied defeatedly. >‘Driver! Get us to that hill! Bearing 007! 100 meters! I want us hull down behind that hill! Full speed!’ I ordered. >‘Moving now, Sir.’ A monotone voice responded. --------- Our tanks lie in wait, as gunfire rang out from behind us in the town. House-to-house, room-to-room, fierce close quarter combat ensued. Bradleys fired into houses, as RPGs were fired at them from different buildings. A squad of infantry took cover behind a porch, as a GP-25 went off nearby. The automatic rifleman laid a suppressing stream of 7.62mm rounds from his M60, as another soldier armed with an M72 LAW, took aim and blew out the wall of the house containing Russian soldiers wide open. 40mm grenades followed shortly after, leaving bits of Russian splattered all over the interior of the house. Over the radio, panicked squad leaders constantly requested fire support, while calm Bradley commanders issued fire orders. >‘Contact in the yellow house! Requesting fire support! Jefferson, get a 40 in that window! Max! Get down! Shit!’ >‘Affirmative! Hoplite 1-4 is engaging your target.’ ---- Back to the periscope, I scanned with the thermal optics. Through the heavy woodland, I picked up no less than a dozen thermal contacts, maybe more. Alerting the other tanks, I ordered weapons free on all hostile targets. >‘Warhorse, this is Paladin! I got 10 plus enemy BMPs and BTR-80As north-northeast of my position, bearing 037! They’re about 500 meters out! We’re engaging now!’ I radioed. I heard Sara shout ‘On the way!’ before a 120mm HE round slammed into a BMP-2, lifting the front of the vehicle nearly vertical, before gravity slammed it back down, wrecking it. A large plume of snow was kicked up from the blast, obscuring visuals, but not our thermal optics. Immediately, inaccurate HE 30mm flew wildly in our general direction, detonating nearby, felling trees, and some even reaching the town behind us. The M60A3s unleashed a volley of 105mm AP rounds, knocking out 3 different vehicles. The enemy BMPs had finished dismounting their infantry and were zeroing in on our positions. The BMPs ripple-fired their ATGMs in an attempt to overload our APS. The Metal Storm APS, with difficulty, handled the 3 AT-5 Spandrel missiles aimed at us, but couldn’t intercept another aimed at a nearby Patton. A PG-7V HEAT warhead impacted the leftmost armor skirt of the XM1A1E7 while the APS was reloading. The impact jarred the tank, causing me to panic slightly. Desperately scanning for the source of the launch, I spot a single thermal contact in the town’s church tower, well beyond 500 meters behind us. >‘Gunner! Get the M2 CROWS to target that RPG gunner! And get that Mk. 19 firing on that dismounted infantry in the open! Prioritize the BMPs, try to disable their ATGMs with the coax!’ I ordered. >‘Already on it, Sir!’ Laughing uncontrollably. >‘On the Way!’ >‘Huh?’ >‘Misfire! I-I’m clearing it now!’ Stephanie shouted in a panic. >‘I-It’s stuck! I can’t get it out!’ >‘Main gun is jammed!’ A red warning light flashed onto the commander’s console. In big red letters, it showed a model of the tank, indicating the gun was inoperable. >Autoloader jammed >120mm Offline Whilst attempting to clear the console of the warning, another popped up. >M2 CROWS disabled >M2 CROWS offline >‘What’s the status of the CROWS?’ I shouted into the turret. >‘The M2 CROWS has been hit with a 3UOR6 HE-T 30mm round fired by a Soviet BMP-2, Commander. The Mark 19 Automatic Grenade Launcher CROWS is still in operating condition.’ Taylor’s nonchalant voice replied. >‘Driver! Pull us back 50 meters, and put us out of view of those BMPs! I’m coming up there to unjam the 120!’ I ordered, as I stood from my chair and clambered into the turret. Surprisingly roomy for a turret, I snuck a glance at Taylor, whom I had yet to see. Also in M81 Woodland, and a tanker’s helmet, she was unusually tall in her reclined driver’s seat. She glanced at me and nodded, simply acknowledging my presence in this supposedly empty turret, whilst continuing reversing back into defilade. Sara fumbled with some joysticks and a triple computer monitor, one of which was static. I could make out some words on the screen. The leftmost screen read [M2 CROWS .50 BMG], while the center read [M256A1 120mm - M240H 7.62mm] and the right read [MK.19 CROWS 40mm]. The center screen had red text scrolling across it, telling us the gun was not ready to fire. Taking another look around, I spotted Stephanie; she was struggling with the stuck round. She was unable to extract the round due to her hands not gaining enough purchase on the case. Weakly grunting with effort, she attempted to pull the casing out, to no avail. >‘Step aside. I’ll extract this one,’ I ordered. She blushes with embarrassment and relinquished her grasp on the casing. I pulled my knife from my waistband and pried the case out from the breech. >‘Here.’ I handed the spent casing to Stephanie. >‘T-thanks. I-I appreciate the assistance Commander. I’ll continue loading now.’ She said timidly, blushing hard. As I was leaving exiting the turret, a BMP crested the ridge in front of us, on the flank of Warhorse. Those 30mm AP rounds would shred the M60A3s’ thin side armor. >‘Gunner! Priority Target! BMP-2, 50 meters! Hit him now!’ I shouted with urgency. I felt the turret rotate and snap to the BMP, as Sara didn’t even say ‘On the way!’ before the BMP was obliterated by an HE shell, blowing half the IFV apart, and throwing the track. >‘Driver! Advance! Let’s go punch a hole in their formation!’ The tank revved in preparation. The turbine engine goes into overdrive as it pushes all 65 metric tons of tank up a 45-degree slope at 20 miles an hour. We crest- no, we get a little bit of air time as we go over the hill. >‘Driver! Ram that BTR! Full speed! Gunner! Weapons free! Open on anything you can see! Prioritize closest first, then BMPs! Loader! Load HE! Rapid fire!’ I order. Without missing a beat, I start transmitting on the radio as Sara unleashes a 120mm M908 HE-OR-T round into the front of a BTR-80A. The front of the APC caves in, sending lethal fragments of shrapnel throughout the crew compartment, painting the insides red. >‘Warhorse, this is Paladin. We’re attempting to punch through enemy lines. Can you cover our flank? Over!’ >‘Roger that, Paladin! All tanks, cover his flanks! Ram them if you have to! We’re going to punch a hole in Ivan’s lines!’ 30mm rounds are flying wildly through the air, while Soviet missiles streak all around. The Metal Storm APS is constantly firing, intercepting ATGMs left and right. Chaos ensued, BMPs being annihilated, M60A3s detracked by 30mm, Soviet crews bailing from their burning BTRs, and in the midst of it all, an experimental XM1A1E7 Abrams expending ammunition like it was going out of style. >‘AT Infantry Right! Gunner! Hit them with 40 mike mike!’ I order, just as Sara finishes emptying the 120mm’s revolving cylinder. >‘APS is reloading! We don’t- Ahhh!’ Stephanie screamed as an RPG hit the reactive armor panel. >‘W-We have 60 seconds until the APS is loaded again, C-Commander!’ She shakily informs me. >‘Commander. The engine is unresponsive. Allow time for it to cool.’ Taylor says, uncaring. >‘That’s fine, as long as we finish off those last BMPs, then we only need to worry about the infantry! Load HE! Manually!’ I command. >‘Yes Sir! Loading HE. Up!’ >‘On the way!’ The 120mm M910 SAPHE-OR-T round exits the barrel, traveling at speeds upward of 1000m/s. It reaches the BMP’s lower glacis in less than a second, punching through with ease. The timed delay fuse on the warhead waits until just after penetration to detonate, causing catastrophic internal damage and disfiguring the outside of the tank from the explosion inside. The BMP begins to cook off after having been dealt a fatal blow, the orange flames illuminating the dark, snowy field. HE 30mm rounds and spare AT-5 missiles begin to detonate inside the wreck, orange flames licking the wreck from every crevice inside the BMP, a bonfire under the night sky. Through the thermal optics, I could see the infantry retreating, having lost all of their armor pieces and no hope to retake and reinforce the town. On the radio, I heard the rest of Warhorse cheering and celebrating a much-needed victory for American forces. >‘Warhorse, this is Paladin. War’s not over yet. I got infantry in the treeline. Put a few WP rounds in there for me will ya? Bearing 287, 70 meters.’ I radio. >‘Sure thing, Paladin! All tanks, get some WP in these woods, flush those commies out! I want them dead! Squirt the treeline with .50’s if you see any of ‘em!’ Warhorse responds. --- We returned to the town and were greeted by cheering American infantry, and multiple Soviet prisoners. While mostly destroyed, a few buildings remained relatively untouched. Some street lamps were still lit, though no traffic lights worked. Some soldiers sat around a diner, eating MREs. Others entered the bakery, and exited with boxes of doughnuts, laughing and enjoying themselves. Many played cards, and some were playing chess in the ruined library by lamplight. The Soviets were sat down in a park, armed guards with ‘poor trigger discipline’ watching them similar to a how an eagle cautiously watches a bear. Taylor radioed into my headset, breaking my line of thought. >‘Commander. I require sustenance to continue at current efficiency.’ >‘Me too, Commander!’ Sara pokes her head down from the turret hatch. ‘It’s hard managing all these weapons you know! Or... we could do something else that’ll fill me up…’ Her green eyes shimmer with impure intent, and a sly grin appears on her face. >‘You know, Commander, you’re prett- Augh!’ She’s yanked out of view, and replaced by a blushing Stephanie. >‘Commander, I wouldn’t mind getting something e-either. If you could- Hey!’ She’s yanked out of view, just as Sara was. My eyes meet Sara’s emerald eyes once more, as she says to me, >‘Kept you waiting, huh? I’m pretty good at all kinds of things, Commander. Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it.’ Her voice was dripping with lust, obviously implying something lewd. Muffled yelling could be heard from behind her in the turret. >‘Alright then. How’s about you tell me what you guys eat? I could probably requisition some MREs from command.’ I say. I then notice a thin trail of blood on Sara’s face in the dimly lit tank, with what appears to be a bruise on her forehead. >‘Sara, are you ok? Did you hit your head on something?’ I ask, concerned for my crew. >‘Oh, this?’ Sara says, touching the cut on her forehead. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.’ My headset crackles again. It’s Taylor. >‘Commander. The fuel gauge is reporting we’re at 2 gallons of fuel. I recommend we find somewhere where we can resupply our fuel.’ >‘Alright then. Take us to the resupply point. We’re going to need to refuel and resupply.’ I order. ----- I stand outside, holding down the high-pressure fuel nozzle against the fuel compartment. I glance over the tank, surveying damage done. I thought back to my old M1A1, how broken and torn up she was. The M2 on the CROWS weapon mount was obliterated, with only about half of the receiver remaining. The metal belt feed was shattered, and the left ballistic shield was cracked and blackened. As luck would have it, the optics had survived with minimal damage, but the optic cable was cut by shrapnel. Drops of clear hydraulic liquid flowed from the disabled turret, reflecting the bright light from the floodlights. The leak was quickly patched up by engineers. The left ERA panels, was blown out from the RPGs, were simply replaced by additional ERA panels. Wanting to double check for any penetration, I reached underneath the armored side skirt, feeling for a possible penetration. I thought I felt a bulge under the side skirt, but when I felt around the area again, there was no bulge to be found. >‘Huh. I coulda sworn there was a bulge there. Must’ve been my imagination.’ I thought to myself. The CROWS was deemed still operational, but the engineers told me that the optical cable was cut, and there was no way to field repair it. We’d have to return to a base to fix it. We could still operate the machine gun, but there was no optical feed. They swapped out the M2 on it and linked the metal belt feed back together. In addition to field repairs, they popped open the autoloader mechanism and cleaned and lubed it. I went over the autoloader once more with lube, ensuring every part was thoroughly wet, and meticulously cleaned spots where the engineers did a shoddy job. I caught a few words they had about the autoloader. >‘Did you see that thing? Holy shit, that’d be a nightmare to clear if it jammed! I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that tank. I feel bad for that commander. It must be scary knowing that if your autoloader locks up, your tank is out of the fight.’ >‘Yeah, I know what you mean, man. Did you see the name of the autoloader though? It had a weird designation. Probably because of the cylinder contraption.’ >‘It was ST3F-1N13 or something right? There’s no way that’s going to make it into mass production. An autoloader with a revolving cylinder? It’d be way too expensive to field on every tank. It’s better to have an extra pair of eyes to help scan for threats anyways.’ >‘Yeah, you’re probably right. I just like that fact that you can get 4 shots off rapidly, before needing to take a moment to reload the whole cylinder. That’s a huge firepower advantage.” >‘Right, right. I gotta go get shit ready for the M3 linebackers. High command said to get ready for an air assault, but I doubt that’s going to happen. I’ll probably get shitfaced in half an hour. What are they gonna do? Replace me? Hah! They need every engineer, and they know it. And I know it. Besides, the regular Bradleys can probably handle whatever crappy helicopters Ivan throws at us. Fuck working on the Linebackers.’ I stopped listening at that point and returned to the tank. The supply unit left us with a full load of 40mm grenades, 120mm rounds, and .50 BMG, but no replacement 5.56 caseless ammunition for the APS. I loaded as much extra ammunition as I could along the turret basket, just in case. I ‘acquired’ an M9 Beretta from a crate of firearms, along with 3 magazines for it. Additionally, I picked a case of 4 MREs and tossed them into the tank. As I peeked up into the turret to hand the crew their MREs, I was greeted with a slap from a red-faced Stephanie, a pouty look from Sara, and a simple ‘Pervert’ from Taylor. I rubbed my cheek, trying to ease the sting, while my brain went into overdrive trying to figure out what I did wrong to deserve such reactions from my crew. Whatever. I was going to sleep. I’d worry about it tomorrow. The last thing I heard before succumbing to tiredness was Sara muttering under her breath. >‘He fools around with everyone else, but not me…’ ---- The sounds of warfare jolt me awake. Explosions and the sounds of helicopters fill the air. The radio’s going off with panicked yelling from everyone, all on the same radio frequency, from tank commanders to squad leaders. >‘They’re fucking everywhere! Left! Left! Shoo- ARGHHHHHHH!’ >‘Watch out! Missile! Take cover!’ >‘I’m hit! I’m hit! I need a medic!’ >‘Where’s our AA? Get those Linebackers here, NOW!’ >‘This is Hoplite 3-3! We’re under infantry assault! We need a squad here now! Hoplite 3-2, on your left! RPG! Shit! Hoplite 3-2 is down!’ >‘This is Warhorse 1! Enemy Mi-28s are slaughtering us! We just lost Warhorse 2! Warhorse 2 has been wiped out! We’re pulling out now! The town is lost! I repeat! The town is lost!’ >‘This is Sgt. Pyle! Russian Mi-8s are dropping troops! Archer 3 is getting overrun! Send reinforcements! Send them now!’ >‘All units, this is Odin! No one retreat! If we lose this town, we lose Oregon! Not one step back!’ A Mi-8 flies over and illuminates our tank with its searchlight. >‘Gunner! Knock that helicopter out of the sky!’ I order. >‘I’m trying! The Mk. 19 isn’t designed for this!’ Sara replies. The Mk. 19 chugs, sending 40mm HEDP rounds arcing into the air towards the helicopter. I see 3 impacts right to left, one to the tail, one to the fuselage, and one right into the cockpit. The Mi-8’s cockpit implodes from the impact, the pilots riddled with glass and shrapnel. It spins out of control and crashes into the town church’s bell tower. >‘All units, this is Odin! Report in!’ >‘I repeat! All units! This is Odin Actual! SITREP!’ >‘This is Archer 4! Archer 1 through 3 is KIA! Archer 5 has been captured!’ A burst of fire interrupts the radio chatter. >‘Warhorse is completely KIA! We have no armored support!’ Another voice pipes up on the radio. >‘This is Hoplite 2-4! I’m the last active of my unit! Where the fuck were those Linebackers? We’ve got no goddamn AA! Those Mi-28s and Mi-24s are fucking us up!’ A helicopter can be heard over the radio, buzzing Hoplite 2-4’s position. >‘Target left! 2nd floor! Shit! Enemy Helicopter! Gunner-’ Hoplite 2-4’s transmission turned to static. >‘Odin, this is Paladin! We’re operational! Where do you need us?’ I radio. >‘Paladin? Get over to the town hall! Where the hell have you been? We need to hold to the line until air support arrives!’ >‘Affirmative! We’re rolling now!’ I respond. >‘Driver! Get us moving! Town hall!’ I order. >‘Yes, Sir. Moving.’ Taylor replies. The engine sputters to life and we begin rolling down the street, as dawn breaks. --- The city hall had collapsed under its own weight, the supporting frame and structure compromised by 80mm HE S-8 rockets, 30mm HE-I rounds, and 40mm GP-25 grenades. Inside, alive and still kicking were the remains of Archer 4 and Odin, the command unit. M16A2s unleashed 3 round bursts of 5.56mm, while underslung M203s launched 40mm HE into Soviet-occupied buildings that surrounded the town hall. The staccato of bursts from an M60E4 locked down the main street, preventing any infantry from advancing. The Lieutenant in command was issuing orders, firing his sidearm, and requesting fire-support from an artillery battalion simultaneously. >‘What do you mean fifteen minutes? We won’t last five with Ivan breathing down our necks! I don’t care if this the town is flattened! I need fire support!’ A Mi-24 swooped in, hovering menacingly in front of the ruined city hall. An M60 opened up on it, the 7.62mm rounds bouncing harmlessly off of the armor. An M72 LAW was fired at the Hind, the rocket burning a dull orange as it streaked through the air. Moving laterally, the Hind expertly avoided the rocket as the 12.7mm chaingun began to spin. >‘пулеметчик, стрелять’ >BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT A long of line of spent casings fell from the ‘chin’ of the Hind gunship. A thin, nearly unbroken line of green tracers engulfed the collapsed city hall. Seemingly uncontent with hosing the building with hundreds of 12.7mm rounds, the Mi-24 unleashed a volley of S-8 HE rockets into the building, completely flattening it. Before the gunship could disengage from the destruction of the city hall, it was greeted by a hail of 40mm grenades from the XM1A1E7. HEDP 40mm blew sizable dents into the fuselage of the Hind, chipping away at the titanium hull. A lucky round impacted on the stub wing of the Mi-24, detonating the remaining S-8 rockets. >‘сука!’ Missing it’s left stub wing, black smoke pouring from it’s left engine, the Mi-24 limped away whilst dumping flares, mortally wounded. Inside the tank, Anon swallowed nervously. He now stood alone, against an entire Soviet heliborne division. No matter effective the APS was, the tank simply couldn’t handle entrenched infantry burrowed into buildings. >‘Driver, reverse. I want us out of this town. Gunner, weapons free. Keep your eyes peeled. Loader, load HE. I’m getting on the M2.’ I order. I clamber up, into the loader’s hatch, and mount the M2 CROWS. Eyes on a swivel, I constantly scan the rooftops for an RPG gunner. To my bewilderment, the 7.62 coax started firing. Swinging the .50 around, I unload into the building that Sara had targeted. While under fire from an HMG, a Soviet soldier managed to toss an RDG-2 smoke grenade into the street, obscuring my line of sight. An additional burst of .50 BMG was fired in retaliation. The heavy KA-CHUNK KA-CHUNK of the Mk.19 right next to me threatened to deafen me. Then, disaster struck. The Mk. 19’s KA-CHUNK turned into a disheartening KER-CHANG. Dread filled my entire being when I realized the Mk. 19 had jammed. A resounding yell of ‘URAAAA!!!’ sent a chill down my spine. Through the smoke, a horde of Soviets came full sprint at us. >‘Driver! Reverse, full speed! Gunner! Fire!’ I yell into the turret as I unleash another burst into the oncoming tide of red. Red tracers met flesh and bone, tearing huge chunks out of men, even ripping some in half. The barrel of the M2 began to turn a dull orange, and wisps of smoke began to rise off the barrel. Still, the mass of infantry seemed unfazed. From the second story of a house, an RPG was fired. Too close to intercept, it struck the engine deck at an oblique angle, detonating, but without much effectiveness. >‘Commander. *cough* The engine is unresponsive. We *cough* are immobilized.’ Taylor informs me through my headset. The tide of human bodies had reached the tank, and they began to clamber on. >‘..Override! Fire!’ I hear briefly. The Metal Storm APS activates, and fires into the horde, liquefying an entire row of Russians. I pull the M9 and magdumped into the nearest Soviet boarder. The M9 stovepipes on the 3rd round fired. Within seconds, I am pulled forcefully from the tank, punching, and kicking. As I get choked out, I can hear one last scream from inside the tank, from Stephanie, before everything begins to fade to black. ----- I awaken with my hands tied behind my back, laying on my side. A black burlap hood covers my head, making it hard to breathe. The sounds of dripping water echoed in my surroundings. Somewhere in my confinement, a door opened. Footfalls clacked against the concrete. A rusty hinge creaks as they open up my door. >‘First Sergeant Anon. Former commander of an M1A1 Abrams, under the callsign of ‘Hammer 1-2.’ Assigned to the frontline to assist in the failed siege of Glade Falls. An honorable man, now taken captive. Tell me, Sergeant, what kind of military abandons their men?’ I was asked. Ripping off the hood, my eyes adjusted to the brightness of my cell. In front of me was a Russian in a Tsar Green military formal dress, reading off of a dossier, with my picture on it. 2 Soviet soldiers enter along with him, and hefted me to my feet. >‘Sergeant Anon, I, and I alone, have the ability to make your life hell or heaven. As long as you are under my care, you will comply with my demands or deal with the consequences,’ He gets up into my face, his breath reeking of vodka. >‘Now, tell me, Sergeant. How do you operate the tank?’ I spit into his face. >‘Ack!’ He wipes his face. ‘Very well.’ He says to me, before barking an order to the guards. >‘охрана, перевоспитывать его’ My kidney is greeted with the butt of a rifle, and I crumble to the floor of the cell. The guards both crack a smile. >‘Вы наш сука, американский.’ Long hours of ‘interrogation’ and ‘physical encouragement’ ensued. ------- I had lost count of the number of days gone by. I’d lost weight from the lack of nutrition, fed gruel, and water, as the guards outside ate barbeque, agonizing me. One day, the officer came back, this time, with a briefcase in hand. Again, I was restrained by the 2 guards. >‘Sergeant, this will be the last time I ask you. Tell us how to activate the tank.’ He says. >‘Go fuck yourself, you commie son of a bitch!’ I say, weakly. He gives me a disgusted look. >‘Very well.’ He opens his briefcase, revealing a screen, and a set of surgical tools. He switches the screen on, revealing American POWs. >‘I wonder what you fear more, Sergeant. Torture? Or the fact that you sentenced these men to their death?’ I try not to reveal anything with my facial expressions. >‘Ah, I see.’ The officer picks up a phone from the case and dials a number. >‘Comrade Commissar, what are your orders?’ A thick Russian accent says over the phone. >‘Execute one of the американский.’ >‘Yes, Sir.’ was the response. I watched in horror as a private was dragged into view of the camera, and shot in the head at point-blank range, his body then dragged off screen. The KGB officer looks at me once more. >‘Sergeant, for each answer you refuse to answer, one of your brothers will pay with his life. Now, answer the questions.’ He says menacingly. I say nothing. 3 more men were executed before I give in. >‘The tank … can only be operated by an authorized commander. It has a biometric locking system. Only I can operate it.’ I lie. >‘I see.’ Turning towards the guards, he barks another order, before packing up the suitcase, and leaving the cell. >‘охрана, эскорт его к танк.’ With those words, I am dragged from my cell. A few days later... After being in the cell for so long, the sunlight blinds me momentarily. I’m in a prison complex, captured by the Soviets and converted into a POW camp. DShKs in the guard towers, aimed inwards, along with searchlights. Razor wire lined the tops of fences. A buffer zone, made of a single strand of barbed wire about 15 feet from the fence, held a sign on a post. It read: >‘STAND BACK. LANDMINE HAZARD.’ with a picture of a man stepping on a landmine. Looking around, I noticed a few areas where the dirt was unnatural, seemingly moved to cover a mine. I felt a blow land on the back of my head. >‘No look, Amerikanski!’ one of the guards said in broken English. I let my head fall and look only at the pavement. -------- Before long, I’m forced into a car at gunpoint. The ride wasn’t long, but I couldn’t see anything due to the hood they put over my head. Once again, I was lead out of the GAZ and dragged into some sort of building. As they remove the hood, I can see I’m in some sort of warehouse. Rows and rows of Russian armored vehicles line the walls. This must be their armor pool. If only I knew where this was, I could maybe order a bomb strike. We exit the warehouse, which was probably a scare tactic to intimidate me. What did intimidate me was the amount of anti-air defenses the Russians had placed. Dual IGLA chair-turrets, SA-6 missiles on some sort of tracked vehicle, and ZU-23-2 AA emplacements. I even spotted a radar and a ZU-23-4 on the top of a hospital. The KGB officer turned to me and spoke. >‘You see, Sergeant? All of this firepower? Our ships have been transporting these day and night. America cannot stand against the might of the Soviet Union! Even your allies refuse to help you after Europe! This airspace is impenetrable!’ To punctuate his sentence, a flight of MiG-29s streak overhead, unleashing 3 simultaneous sonic booms. The KGB officer laughs. >‘There is no hope of escape. No one to save you. Now, come.’ He pauses, as looks at my face. >‘Ah. You see it already. Yes. We are indeed taking you to your beloved tank. We’ve tried to open it up already, but it remains locked. You, Sergeant, will unlock the tank for me. Your comrades’ lives depend on it.’ Approaching the tank, I hesitate to unlock it. >‘Am I a traitor to my country for doing this? Is this worth the lives of those men?’ I debate internally. >‘What’s taking so long, Sergeant? Surely you have no second thoughts?’ The officer asks. Before I can respond, something detonates. As alarms wail and the guards and officer are temporarily distracted, I unlock the driver’s hatch by pulling on the emergency release pin, which the Russians had somehow managed to overlook. By the time they turned around, I was waist-deep into the hatch. Drawing a PSM in the blink of an eye, the KGB officer aimed at me. >‘Not so fast, Sergeant! I don-’ Gunfire erupted, and the KGB officer’s words were cut short by 6 well-placed rounds of American 5.56. As the life drained from the officer’s face, I snatched the PSM as it landed on the hull of the XM1A1E7. I fired 6 rounds into the right guard before he could raise his rifle, as another 3-round burst struck the other Russian. Looking around for my saviors, I spotted 2 men wearing M81 woodland and facepaint, with M16s. They bound forward and came up to me. >‘Are you alright? Do you ne- Wait! Commander Anon, is that you?’ One says. >‘Hyde? I thought you were shipped to Bannon’s platoon! And is that you Johnson? I said, confused. >‘I’ll explain later, but we need to go! Raider 1 has disabled their radar, and Raider 2 is freeing the POWs right now, but we need to sabotage their fuel depot. Do you have any idea where their motor pool is?’ Hyde says as he shows me his satchel full of C-4. >‘Yeah, it’s right around here! Follow me, I’ll show you.’ I proclaim. Hopping out of the tank, I discard the PSM and pick up an AK-74 from one of the dead guards. I lead them to the warehouse, who then plant bricks of C-4 onto the GAZ-66 tank trucks. Before we can escape the warehouse, a crew of Soviet tankers rushes inside, heading for their tanks. Thinking quickly, I snatch a grenade off of Johnson’s webbing, and sprint towards the T-80U they’re mounting. The commander looks up after entering the turret, finding an AK-74 muzzle brake aimed at his face. He looks on in horror as I drop the grenade down inside the tank before his face welcomes the 5.45mm round entering his cranium. The grenade detonates inside the tank, amidst screaming from the crew. One attempts to crawl out of the emergency hatch, who I put out of misery with a burst of 5.45. Hyde and Johnson have finished their sabotage, as another squad of Russian tankers enters the warehouse, their AKS-74u raised, having heard the gunfire. I fire again, cutting down one Russian before the bakelite mag runs dry. The remaining Russians seek cover from my position. They return fire, pinning me down behind the T-80U’s turret. More gunfire erupts as Hyde and Johnson engage from the Russian flank. As the Russians attempt to reposition from being flanked, I grab onto the T-80U’s pintle mounted DShK, and rack the charging handle. >DUSHKDUSHKDUSHKDUSHKDUSHKDUSHK 12.7mm rounds tear through concrete, flesh, and bone, disintegrating the Russians. My ears were left numb after that burst; I did not have any hearing protection in, and firing a heavy machine gun with a muzzle break indoors is generally not healthy for your ears. >‘Anon! Let's go!’ I hear through the EEEEEEEEEEEEE Jumping down off of the T-80, we run back to the XM1A1E7. ------- MiGs fly overhead, on high alert. A Mi-8TVK Hip-E gunship flew overhead in a search pattern. The three of us clamber into the cramped Abrams. >‘Just like old times, commander!’ Johnson says. ‘A bit more cramped though!’ >‘Where’s the turret? How do I gun, commander?’ Hyde asks. >‘It’s unmanned. It’s designed to be operated by one person.’ I say. >‘Where’s the hatch to the turret? Where're the girls? Did they get captured too?’ I think to myself, shuddering at the thought of what Russian soldiers would do to captured female tankers. >‘Stephanie! Taylor! Sara! Where are you?’ I yell inside the tank. Hyde and Johnson give me odd looks. >‘Who are you yelling for?’ Hyde asks. >‘Sorry. Johnson, get on that console there. Hyde, the gunner controls are there.’ I direct them. >‘Anon, the Mk. 19’s jammed. I don’t have visual feed on the M2 either,’ Hyde informs me. ‘I’m not too sure how to operate the gun, Commander.’ >‘The engine’s shafted, Commander!’ Johnson says from behind. ‘I don’t have any response!’ They hadn’t repaired the Abrams since the battle. >‘Shit, I’ll go and try to unfuck us! Stay here, make sure that gunship doesn’t spot us!’ I order. I exit the tank through the driver’s hatch again. Climbing onto the turret, I open up the Mk. 19. A faulty grenade was the source of the failure. I extract the grenade, readjust the belt back onto the feed tray, and close the Mk. 19 again. Using both hands, I pull on the charging handle, sending the bolt to the rear. I jump down from the turret to the engine deck, glancing over the damage. Luckily, RPG missed the engine and had struck the speed governor. Unable to tell the speed, the computer shut the engine down for safety purposes. Although we’d run a small chance of the engine exploding, it would be a simple fix. >‘We’ve disabled the radar on the hospital! There are MiGs in the air, but we need that strike, Sir! We won’t last much longer without supplies! This is our only opportunity to poke a hole in Ivan’s air defense net!’ Johnson says on the radio. ‘There’s a Russian armor pool on 6th and Albert! The warehouse is full of Russian heavy armor! We could hit that as well!’ I look at Johnson, wondering who he’s radioing. From what I heard, it must be someone trying to coordinate supply drops and combat sorties. >‘Yes Sir! We’ve already evacuated the POWs! Wha- Thank you, Sir!’ Johnson turns to me. >‘Good news, commander! We’ve got an airstrike approved! We’ve got a 10-minute window to get the hell out of the strike zone!’ I spring into commander mode. >‘The Mk. 19 should be unjammed now! Johnson, remove the speed governor protocol from the engine, that should start it up!’ I say. ‘Hyde, you’re on the 120. Use the joystick. I’ve got the Mk.19.’ >‘Johnson, get us the fuck outta here!’ Hyde says. The engine sputters but starts. Gunfire can be heard throughout the city. >‘Driver! Forward!’ --- The XM1A1E7 tore down the gravel road at its top speed of 43 miles per hour, as a flight of 5 F-15E Strike Eagles screamed overhead at treetop height. They were each laden with 8 Mk. 84 2,000 lb retarded-drag bombs, and all except for the flight leader carried a single AIM-9M short-range heat-seeking missile for self-defense. Soviet AA fire streaked towards the flight of fighter-bombers, filling the air with hundreds of rounds in mere seconds. Quad mounted DShK machine guns tore 12.7mm holes in an F-15E’s wing, as one IGLA chair let loose both of its 9M39 heat-seeking missiles. The twin rockets streaked towards the flight of jets, who quickly broke formation, jettisoning flares. Having reached their target, the F-15Es released their payload, dumping additional flares to ward off any further missile attacks. Whilst retreating from the AO, a flight of 4 Soviet Su-27K fighters engaged the 5 Strike Eagles, claiming 2 of the American aircraft in exchange for one Su-27K. They’d kicked the hornet’s nest. Multiple smoke columns billowed from the town; this was the largest offensive attack by the guerillas in weeks. Soviet command was disorganized, sending Mi-8 gunships out to hunt for the rebels, whilst attempting to contain the fires and damage all at once. One example of the Mi-8 gunships pursued an American Abrams tank. >‘Там! Танк, фронт! пулеметчик, стрелять!’ A flurry of S-8DM rockets detonated on the gravel road no less than 20 meters in front of the XM1A1E7. The Mk. 19 CROWS turret rotated to engage the Soviet gunship, firing bursts of 4-6 grenades. Inside the tank, I swore under my breath, cursing the helicopter with every insult I knew. >‘Goddamn commie gunship! Fuck off!’ The CHUG-CHUG-CHUG of the Mk.19 only seemed to piss it off more, as the nose gunner in the Mi-8 began to hose the top of the Abrams with 7.62x54R rounds. Another flurry of rockets was launched from the Mi-8, impacting dangerously close to the tank. All automated functions were disabled, meaning that the Metal Storm APS was of no use intercepting the rockets that the Mi-8 fired. I pull on the trigger again, unleashing a salvo of 40mm grenades arcing into the air. The Mi-8 responds with a long burst from the nose-mounted PKT, specifically targeting the Mk. 19 turret. Several 7.62x54R rounds find their way into the delicate optics of the CROWS, and the metal feed link. I’m left with a video stream corrupted lines, rendering the CROWS useless. I slam my fist onto the control console, swearing intensely. Sgt. Hyde turns towards me. >‘Sir, permission to exit the tank!’ He requests. Turning to face him, I ask in disbelief, >‘For what purpose, Sergeant?!?’ >‘Sir, the turret is unresponsive! I can’t rotate the 120 to engage the helo, but I can get on the M2 on the roof!’ >‘Permission Granted.’ Hyde climbed out of the crew compartment, grabbing onto the barrel of the 120mm M256 as support. The Mi-8’s nose gunner spots him, and sends AP steel-core 7.62 downrange; the rounds burrowing into the roof armor of the turret and the dirt. Grabbing onto the M2HB’s barrel, Hyde swung the turret around to face the Mi-8. >‘Пристрели его! Пристрели его!’ The nose-gunner fired with renewed intensity, forcing Hyde to take cover behind the armored plating of the CROWS, the machinegun rounds snapping and cracking inches over his head. During a pause between bursts, Hyde took a risk. He stood, and aligned the sights of Ma Deuce with the Soviet Mi-8. Depressing the spade trigger, the M2HB sent 625 gr of freedom per round into the canopy of the Mi-8, shredding glass, metal, and flesh. The Mi-8 lost control, crashing into the pine trees; bits of rotor and shards of metal flying everywhere. Hyde was elated. He’d just shot down a Mi-8 gunship, saving the tank and crew. He went to climb down back into the crew compartment when he spotted the blood painted around the base of the M256 and the front of the turret. With his right hand, he felt his abdomen; his hand was soaked in blood. Looking down, he counted four six-inch-long shards of metal stick out of his stomach. >‘Well, shit.’ Hyde thought, collapsing on the front of the tank. --- Inside the tank, PFC Johnson stared intently at the gravel road ahead. He tried to keep the tank steady whenever possible, as steady as possible while dodging S-8DM rockets, that is. The only time he stabilized the tank was when he could hear the M2HB firing away above him. Johnson was constantly trying to predict when the Mi-8 would fire. He was so focused, he didn’t hear the crash of the gunship, or the thud of a body landing next to the viewports. Johnson didn’t realize Sgt. Hyde was dead until his blood began to trickle down the viewports, coating his optics with crimson red blood. Slowing to a stop, Johnson unbuttoned his obscured hatch and turned out, only to come face-to-face with Hyde’s own lifeless corpse. >‘Fuck!’ The stench of iron blood filled his nostrils; Johnson almost threw up. >‘Johnson! Johnson! Button up! Contact front!’ >‘Wha-’ ---- >‘Johnson! Johnson! Button up! Contact front!’ A gunshot rang out, and something hit the front of the tank with a loud clang. PFC Johnson slumped down into his seat, his head a bloody pulp. Remotely closing the driver’s hatch, I squeezed over to Johnson’s headless corpse. I pulled him from his chair and lowered him onto the floor. Peering out of the only viewport without a coating of blood, I spotted a UAZ-469, and a Russian marksman, resting his SVD on the open door. Firing again, he struck inches away from the driver’s viewports. Flinching instinctively, I ducked down, before realizing that he was trying to blind the tank. I grabbed the motorcycle-like handlebars and accelerated. 65 tons of tank started to bear down onto the Russian who had taken Johnson’s life. >“AY BLYAAAAT!” The Soviet marksman dives away into the mud as 65 tons of American armor rolls over the UAZ, flattening it like a pancake. >“A NU CHEEKI BREEKI, IV DANKE!” The Russian shouts, grabbing his mud-encrusted SVD. The Abrams spins around to face the fleeing Russian. Anon guns the engine; the tank lurches forward at considerable speed, covering the distance between the two in an instant. Anon violently rams the clutch to its maximum speed with a white-knuckle grip; he was going painfully kill this commie son-of-a-bitch. The sound of bones crunching and screaming filled the snowy air, just barely drowned out by the whine of Abram’s turbine engine. With a sickening ‘POP!’, the tracks were coated with Slavic grey-matter. Panting, Anon releases his grip on the tank’s clutch. He stares at his blood-coated hand for a moment, before wiping it off on his BDU. Pulling Johnson’s corpse out of the Abrams, Anon lays his comrades' side by side. Retrieving an E-tool from the turret basket, Anon begins work on a shallow grave for his brothers-in-arms in complete silence. The cold bites into his bare hands, but he keeps digging. The E-tool doesn’t bite into the icy dirt too well. --- Having finished the grave, Anon steps back to burn the final resting place of his crew into his mind. 2 M16A2 rifles rest vertically over the grave; 2 PASGT helmets rest atop the buttstocks. Closing his eyes, Anon mutters a quiet prayer to himself. Behind him, Sara, Stephanie, and Taylor sit uncomfortably on the snow-coated tank, whispering amongst themselves. >“Do you think we should do something?” Sara asks. >“What would we do? It’s not like we can console him.” Stephanie interjects. >“The best course of action is to not get involved. Commander needs to remain focused, lest we lead him to his death.” Taylor says flatly. The other two girls slowly nod in agreement. --- Anon returns to an empty tank. Without a word, he picks up a nearby rag and begins to clean the mess left behind. The gray matter and skull fragments came off fairly easily, but the bloodstains stubbornly remained. Having done the best he could with a dirty rag, spit, and snowmelt, Anon collapses into the commander’s chair. The radio crackles; a distress call from another tank battalion. >“This is Charlie-Six of 5th Battalion, to any American armor receiving this message, you are to move to Foxtrot-Tango --Break-- Tango-Echo-Lima-Lima-Echo-Romeo, at Charlie-Alpha-Sierra-Charlie-Alpha-Delta-Echo --Break-- Foxtrot-Alpha-Lima-Lima-Sierra, Over and Out!” >“Driver, get us en-route to Cascade Falls.” --- A massive column of M1A1 Abrams and M60 MBTs roll over an old, barely-used country bridge, which trembles under the weight of American Armor. Captain Mark Bannon sat in the command seat of his M1A1 Abrams, nervously tapping on his radio. ‘Aw fuck, Colonel Sawyer is gonna tear me a new asshole if I don’t get this armor to Parker!’ He thinks. >“Capt’n! We got a problem here! One of the ‘60’s threw a tread in the snowbank, it’s blocking the whole damn bridge!” The radio crackled, much to Bannon’s dismay. >“Well, shit! Get it fixed, I’ll raise the Colonel; hurry the fuck up if you can! Parker’s gonna need as many tanks as he can get. 2nd Platoon, keep moving and link up with Parker!” Bannon orders. Taking a deep breath, Bannon raises the Colonel. >“Sir, this is Bannon, Charlie-Three through Seven are stuck; we can’t make it to Parker, sir!” >“What the FUCK did you say, Bannon? You cock-sucking worthless piece of shit! Parker’s going to get his ass reamed by Ivan, and you’re going to sit there twiddling your thumbs up your ass? Get that armor here, NOW! I don’t care if you have to push it here!” >“Y-Yes, Sir!” Bannon replies. Switching radio networks, Bannon begins to order the rest of Charlie Company. >“Shit, guys, we need to get our ass in gear! Parker’s up to his neck in shit and the drain’s clogged! I don’t care how you move that M60, but get it out of the damn way! Ram it with an Abrams if you need to! We need to go, fucking YESTERDAY!” --- 30 minutes later --- >“OH FUCK, OH FUCK! Charlie-Seven, pull back, pull back! You got T-80s on your left flank!” Bannon shouts into the radio. >“Belay that order! Bannon, you are to hold that bridge at ALL COSTS!” Colonel Sawyer orders. >“Charlie-Six, Charlie-Six, this is Charlie-Seven! We’ve taken multiple casualties! Say again, multiple casualties! That armor is slaughtering us!” >“Charlie-Seven, pull back! Charlie-Five, reinforce their position!” Bannon orders. >“Bannon! What the hell are you doing? Get those Abrams back there!” Sawyer demands. >“Charlie-Six, Charlie-Six, this is Charlie-Five! We got entrenched AT infantry here! We can’t hold this position! Your orders?” >“Aw fuck! Charlie-Five, pull back across the bridge, and regroup! We’ll hit them while they’re choked up in the bridge, and push back through!” Bannon orders. >“BANNON! BANNON! GODDAMN YOU! Parker! Bannon’s abandoned the bridge! You’re going to have to split your forces. Go take it back!” Sawyer commands. As Parker’s forces spearhead the attack, Bannon’s forces support the charge with heavy armor, and AT missiles. M113A3s launch 120mm mortars overhead into charging Russian infantry, shredding them into pieces - staining the snowy hillside red. 155mm HE rounds annihilate Soviet armor, leaving nothing but burning wrecks. TOW missiles pop the turrets of outdated, underarmored T-72 tanks, while only merely stripping the T-80Us of their ERA. 125mm HEAT rounds slam into Sheridan light tanks, igniting and detonating them. Intense house to house fighting ensues, as American and Soviet troops exchange fire from houses. PKMs spew green tracers into the wood cabin as an American AT team rushes inside to fire off their Dragoon ATGMs at the approaching BMP-2s. An M60 retaliates against the offending Soviet machine gun nest, putting a White Phosphorus round into the window; burning Soviets rushing out, vomiting their guts out before getting cut down by the coaxial machine gun of the M60. American Infantry, caught in the open by a BTR-80, ready M72 LAWs only to be cut down by advancing Russian shock troops. One soldier fires off his LAW, the orange glow of the rocket streaking over the BTR, detonating harmlessly on the hillside behind. Less than a second after firing his LAW, he was cut in half by 14.5mm slugs from the BTR. In seconds, the outflanked American Infantry were annihilated. >“Parker! We got B-52s on standby from Fairchild AFB! Callsign, ‘Green Leader’, direct them at your discretion!” Sawyer informs Parker. >“Yes sir! Green Leader, Green Leader! This is Bravo-Six, I need a carpet run at grid ref 113552, going south to north, danger-close! Lay it on them!” >“This is Green Leader; Request confirmed. Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, boys. Bombs away!” The earth itself shook as 2,000 lb bombs raped the ground, enormous craters and shockwaves throwing chunks of snow tens of meters into the air, if not vaporizing them immediately. Under this show of force, having lost over half their force with one strike, the Soviet line broke and they began to retreat. >“FUCK YEAH! GET SOME! All units, attack! Cut those commies down!” Bannon shouts, ecstatic. >“Bannon! Stay in formation, DO NOT BREAK FORMATION! GODDAMNIT, I WILL SHOOT YOU MYSELF! Order those units to return immediately!” Sawyer orders furiously. >“U-Uh, yes sir! All units, belay my last, say again, return to formation!” Bannon orders. [To be continued]