The XM1A1E7 tore down the gravel road at it’s 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 it’s 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 disorganised, 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 were 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 realise 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 realising 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.