Heart of the Resonant- the Soldier's Tale

by B. C. Handler

  Heart of the Resonant

  The Soldier’s Tale

  By

  B.C. Handler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by B. C. Handler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Disclaimer:

  This book is intended for a mature audience 18 years of age and older. This book contains explicit content such as harem elements, sex, and graphic violence

  Chapter 1

  Hefting fifteen pounds of chrome-plated steel, I settled the socket on the nut and gave a healthy twist until the torque wrench clicked once. Blowing out a breath, I dropped the wrench in the toolbox and wiped my brow, still trying to fight off the fatigue of a Monday. Even after years of working, going through basic, and two tours, my palms still get raw after handling a gnarled handle after an hour. Especially for something as cumbersome as a tank.

  “Alright, last bolt is at the right pound-feet of torque,” I said before taking a much-needed sip from my water bottle.

  “Uh-huh,” Judge said.

  “That’s all the drive sprockets. Did I miss any bolts on the tracks?”

  “Nope,” Judge replied.

  Fighting back the urge to sigh, I planted my foot on the road wheel and climbed onto the turret. Lounging at the front of the tank on the hull was Judge, the Abrams service manual over his face with his hands linked behind his head. He was supposed to be keeping track of PMCS while I did all the nitty-gritty. Not that I minded, considering checking over hundreds of nuts and bolts was easier than retrieving a single bolt with a snapped head. Judge and Ji-hyun have broken over two dozen between them, and Heath throws temper tantrums like a golfer going through a divorce.

  A glob of old grease on his big head would show him. But something better was approaching.

  Stepping out of the office attached to the hangar was Sergeant Booker, looking especially agitated as she was doing her rounds.

  I got down to a knee and hid behind the turret and pulled out a rag to make it look like I was cleaning. Judge still oblivious to everything around him.

  As Booker neared, I pretended to look really focused. Her voice ruptured the tranquil ambiance of the base.

  “Attention!” she barked.

  With a faux jump, I got to my feet, whirled, and saluted. Judge, shocked, flailed like a fawn on ice and slid off the hull. He scrambled to his feet and saluted.

  Booker gave Judge an icy stare, and without saying anything, leaned in to inspect the tank. After a few minutes of deep scrutinizing, Booker barked, “Lawe?”

  “Bolts on the track and drive sprockets have been torque — no missing hardware. And oil is good, ma’am,” I said clearly and curtly.

  Since I knew my job and knew it well, Booker gave another look and said, “Good work, Soldier.”

  She turned her head fractionally to Judge, who wasn’t sweating before. She took several slow steps towards him like a tiger and stared into his face.

  “Launder,” she says in an even tone, “pick up that manual.”

  Judge snapped down, retrieved and held the Abrams manual over his heart, and resumed a salute.

  Booker let out an even breath and said, “You’re on fire watch again. Doze off for even a second, and you’ll be on it for a third night.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” Judge replied.

  Booker turned heel and looked for more souls who needed a good chewing.

  Once she was a safe distance away, I gave Judge a grin.

  “Ah, shit.” Judge rubbed his eyes and groaned. Peeking through his fingers, he shot me a glare. “A warning would've been nice.”

  I put my hands out apologetically. “That street goes both ways, pal. If you had given me a hand half an hour ago, I would’ve given you a nudge.”

  “Christ, you’re an ass,” he chuckled, then signed the cross for taking the Lord's name in vain. “And like your ass even needs a checklist. Ji-hyun thinks you’d start screwing this thing if you’re left alone.”

  “Hey, she’s got a name,” I warned.

  “Right. Ji-hyun thinks you’d start screwing Karen if you’re alone.”

  I jumped down and started picking up tools. “Nothing wrong with being interested in your work.”

  “You should’ve been a mechanic. Those boys and gals would support your mechanophilia.”

  I dropped the assorted wrench pouch into the case and smiled at him. “Then I won’t be able to blow shit up over a mile away. C’mon? I was all business at the recruitment office, but as my ears registered ‘tank,’ I was giddy like a kid who found a big stick.”

  Judge wiped his brow and leaned against Karen. “Yeah, well, can’t argue with that.” He looked over to maintenance garages behind us. “Can you imagine how boring it must be for mechanics here? A friend of mine does administrative stuff, and it’s so boring he sometimes forgets he’s in Syria. I’d rather dig a hole just to refill it than sit at a desk all day.”

  I shrugged. “Grunt work of any kind here beats cooking in the desert. Cruising around is fun, but nothing beats having my boots on home soil.”

  “Amen to that.”

  The M1A2 Abrams is the epitome of mechanized warfare. Sure, drones are getting bigger, badder, and fixed with some pretty armaments, but they’re pretty frail in comparison to sixty-seven tons of steel and depleted uranium.

  Being able to handle so much power at my fingers was almost intoxicating. But it never made me feel more than a man. Every time we ran support during our tour in Syria, I worried about rolling over a mine or an IED that would rip our treads to tin foil. A tank with broken treads is just like a turtle on its back: easy pickings.

  Beautiful machines like Karen are well-engineered, but every good piece of equipment needs proper care. You can handle everything in life when you’re prepared.

  Two years of service left. A lot can happen in two years, but I’m ready.

  “Make sure the driver’s hatch is shut, and I’ll get the skirt fastened,” I said, locking the toolkit and stowing it in its designated area. “Think you can handle that?”

  “Ye ask, and ye shall receive,” Judge said with a flourishing bow.

  While he did that, I pushed the armored skirt into its locked position over the tracks, then gave it a couple good tugs to make sure it was seated properly. As I was going to the other side, I saw a bunch of bodies sprinting out of the mess hall. Recruits came to Fort Garner a few days ago for basic.

  Someone must’ve grabbed dessert of coffee.

  The first time we sat down for chow back during the first phase, they put out lemon squares on the mess deck. No sugar or caffeine was supposed to go into our systems, but they always left it out knowing someone would crack. Or weed out those who can’t follow basic orders. We did a five-mile run that ended with almost everyone in the platoon throwing up, three of which who shat themselves.

  While looking back on good memories, Heath and Ji-hyun came booking it from the administrative building, behind them were the other armored crewman.

  I wiped the dirt and grease from hands as they ran up, more than a little confused.

  “We doing a drill?” I asked as they came up.

  Ji-hyun was the first to respond, but between her gasping and frantic babbling, I didn’t make out a thing.

  “I speak American, not K-pop. Out with i
t.”

  Heath ran past me and grabbed Judge by the shoulder, then came back until we stood in a loose circle.

  “We have to gear up. Full combat loads. Once fitted, we get the bucket checked and outfitted,” Heath said between breaths.

  More bodies ran past, people relaying orders to the men and women manning the tank depot. Fuel and armaments were being rolled out and distributed to each vehicle’s designated loadout.

  Turning back, I fought the urge to ask my crewmates if they were serious, but thought better of it. Judge and I shared a fleeting glance, and then we joined the horde heading towards the armory.

  Ten minutes of shouting, standing nut to butt, and getting my pack sorted, I had my M4 carbine, M9 pistol, and sixty pounds of equipment. Judge, Heath, Ji-hyun, and I ran back to the depot and began going through our activities to get the tank combat-ready.

  As gunner, I prepared my station, installed the coaxial machine gun, got the computer going, and then went through the twenty-four more steps drilled into me.

  Heath was the tank commander, Judge served as loader, and Ji-hyun’s narrow ass sat in the driver's seat.

  As I was handing shells to Judge to load into the rack, I asked heath, “What the hell is going on? Are we under attack?”

  Heath finished his chest and was securing his helmet. “No idea. Ji-hyun and I were in the rec room when the general stormed in and told us to report to our posts and mobilize.”

  My brows furrowed. Past the barbed wire fence was the woods, and four miles out was Rockwell. Twenty miles north, past all the farmlands, was Chicago. The sky was clear, not even any jet trails from planes coming or going to O’Hare. And outside of live fire practice that morning, there hasn’t been anything to warrant gearing up the entire division.

  Corporal Hudson was exchanging words with Sergeant Major Cook. Since my first time coming to Fort Bartlett, Sergeant Major Cook was the kind of man who naturally radiated a do-not-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-give-you-your-own-personal-slice-of-hell look despite being in his fifties. The prominent and easy power of command he carried solidified his position. However, he managed to do something I thought he was incapable of: look worried.

  Hudson and Cook talked at length, saluted, then went separate ways. Cook went off towards the various brigades of infantry formed on the training pad; Hudson walked briskly towards us.

  When he was in the path of our tank, I hopped off and saluted. “Permission to inquire details, sir!”

  Hudson pulled off his helmet and shucked away a thick sheen of sweat from his shaved head. Fixing me with a tired look, he sighed and shook his head. “At ease, Oliver,” he said.

  Only my friends used my first name. The break in formality gave me pause, but I shook it off and got back on point. “Why are we mobilizing?”

  He blew out a great bellow of air and fixed me a hard look. “Martial Law has been declared.”

  Judge and Heath stopped what they were doing and joined me to stare at Hudson.

  “You can’t be… Really?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he affirmed. “Standard coms went down about an hour ago. As we were troubleshooting, we got a message through the emergency shortwave radio from Fort Jenning. They got an emergency message from Fort Brad, and they’ve been relaying messages back and forth from Washington. Some sort of attack is going on, but the brass is still trying to figure it out.

  “In the meantime, we’re mobilizing to Rockwell to set up a relay point. After that, we’re going into the city for damage control in conjunction with the National Guard.”

  “Then what?” Heath asked with disbelief in his voice.

  Hudson put his helmet back on and held his hands out to his sides. “Keeping people from ripping each other apart is the main goal. Heath, you’ll receive direct orders from your sergeant once the other regiments are squared away. For now, sit tight. Smoke if you got em’.”

  He turned heel and left, crossing in front of Humvee towing an artillery piece to where other vehicles were getting ready in the convoy out. Normally, we were only allowed to smoke in the designated areas. A quick look around revealed everyone chain-smoking, surely right after the news was broken to them too. Not being one to waste an opportunity, I fished out my cigar case and pulled a cigarillo from the miniature compartment and slid my Zippo from the holder to light up. Drawing in a mouthful of Dominican tobacco, I sagged against the tank and stared at the case Dad gave me before my first tour.

  I was worried about one of the few people in this world I actually gave a damn about, but Dad was Dad. He could take care of himself. God help whoever tried to cross him.

  Judge climbed down while Heath relayed the news to Ji-hyun. A few seconds after he climbed into the turret, her voice screeched with disbelief.

  Wordlessly, I passed the cigarillo to Judge, who took a draw and handed it back.

  “Good thing my folks live in Shelbyville,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Your dad lives in DeKalb, right?”

  Staring at the case, I said, “Yeah. Not that different from Rockwell.”

  Judge signed the cross. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He pulled the cross from around his chain and pressed to his lips. “They’ll be okay. We’ll help keep it that way.”

  “Yeah.” I took a long drag and blew the smoke into the sky.

  ✽✽✽

  Two hours after deployment and we were part of a convoy consisting of seven tanks, a dozen Humvees, and four LAVs rolling through the suburbs of Chicago before getting to the city proper. It felt weird riding a tank beyond our testing grounds, but riding past a daycare center and a Seven-Eleven felt unreal.

  I-90 was completely clogged up with cars desperately trying to leave the city. Some were redirected to the field base near where we settled in Rockwell. It was tempting just to hop off the tank, cross the lane dividing the highway and ask what the hell was going on, but our orders were issued, and we have to secure and maintain order. It was needed.

  Storefronts were busted open, homes had their doors kicked in from looting, and more than a few cars were upturned — one of which being a cop car currently burning, cooking rubber pungent in the air. Though, we know it was going to be much worse once we get into the city. Even from I-90, we could see the billowing smokestacks from various points of unseen destruction. Explosions have yet to be heard, and it looked like all the major buildings of the skyline were still there, so I’m unclear on the nature of the terrorist attack.

  What was stranger was that a lot of our equipment experienced some sort of interference. GPS refused to locate, digital communication was useless, the onboard compass veered in random directions, and even my cell phone had no service. Radios held, but static has been getting worse. Had it been an EMP from a nuclear attack, there’d be a lot more damage to the area, and any electronics without copper shielding would’ve fried like bacon.

  A cyber attack in conjunction with a series of small bombings?

  “Driver, stop,” Heath ordered over personal coms.

  “What’s up?” Judge asked.

  “Lead tank saw some movement, maybe civilians. A unit’s going over to investigate.”

  Ji-hyun whistled, the sound a crackling mess in my ear. “Looks like one hell of a party went on down here. Judge, Oliver, you guys are natives. Did the gangs finally go out of control?”

  “I don’t know how they portrayed Chicago in China, Ji, but it’s not a fucking warzone,” I replied.

  “I grew up in Iowa, dick,” she spat.

  I looked back from my seat to see Judge giggling to himself. Heath was operating the radio and murmuring on other channels.

  “South Side and Hyde Park are shitholes, everywhere else is okay,” I said, calling back to brief excursions.

  Truth be told, I only ever went to Chicago with my dad to see the museums. I’ve been to the Museum of Science and Industry dozens of times. Exploring old planes and tanks expanded my appeal for joining the Army before I realized that ninety-percent
of a soldier’s time was fending off boredom.

  Judge helped. Basic was the most fun thing I’d like never to experience again. Though, when we got hazed on especially hard days, Judge managed to say or do something that kept most of us from breaking or passing the time when things got drier than a saltine.

  My favorite moment was when we were getting chow, and an NCO saw Judge’s stubble. When asked what the hell was on his face, Judge, without missing a beat, answers, “That would be your saliva, sir.” Very rarely does an officer pause like that. Almost gave myself a hernia from containing my laughter.

  “Ji-hyun, they have a decent Chinese buffet up on North Carpenter. We should pull up,” Judge snickered.

  “I’m Korean!” she exploded over the com. “If you gaggle of assholes calls me Chinese one more time—”

  “Stuff it,” Heath barked. “We got contact.”

  The lead tank was five blocks ahead, and with the dense buildings and thick armor, I couldn't hear any gunfire. Swallowing hard, I brushed my thumb over the trigger of the machine gun.

  “Ji, hard right, off Bernard Street.” Two seconds after Heath’s command, the tank turned and started down the street. “Easy left. Easy—Easy!” We tilted to one side, and something smacked on top of the hull. “Ji, you just killed a crosswalk light.”

  “I can hardly see jack through the ports,” Ji-hyun groused.

  “If you want Oliver and Judge to keep busting your balls, stop reinforcing stereotypes.”

  She kept whatever follow-up to herself. I’m happy the driver’s seat was its own separate little compartment.

  Peeking through the viewfinder, we were following after another Abrams, a Humvee sandwiched between us, with boys and gals taking point on either side of the street.

  People moved sedately. Rifles held low while they moved from car to car and storefront to storefront. Heath still had the radio receiver pressed to the side of his face, receiving and relaying messages, but I gathered we’re circling around to box-in whatever enemy the lead squad engaged.