The platoon’s four tanks were in hull defilade about two klicks from the town with mostly open bottom land in between. A small creek ran down the valley and into the town. While it might be large enough to slow straight-leg infantry, it would be nothing to a PICS platoon nor the tanks. The sandy creek bottom was more than firm enough to hold up the tanks’ heavy weight without bogging down.
As the driver, Noah didn’t have the optics available to the TC, the tank commander, nor to the gunner. Still, he zoomed in the insert in his center block to the max 6X power and scanned the town. He could see nothing, no movement. His insert had night-vision capability, but no heat sensors, so if some Ataturk armor was waiting for them, engines running, he couldn’t pick up the heat signatures. Both Staff Sergeant Cremineli and Sergeant Cayenne “Chili” Fulford, though, had that capability, and as neither one of them was saying anything, Noah took that as a positive.
He toggled the route planner, and the big combat AI’s up on the FS Jerry-John Crossland mapped out the quickest and what they considered the safest route to the town, then overlaid it right onto both his center block and digital display screen. Noah could use the overlay in a pinch during periods of zero visibility, just following the projection on his screen, but he preferred to use the Alpha Mode, with him seeing the real terrain through the blocks and with the tracks in HUD-mode[25] merely guiding him. As good as the display was, he trusted seeing the real world through the blocks more.
“Charlie-One, prepare to advance in a wedge,” Lieutenant Amanda Moore passed over the net, with what sounded like a hint of nervousness in her voice.
Like Noah, this was the lieutenant’s first combat mission as a tanker. Most of the platoon had never fired their main guns in anger. Only the platoon sergeant and two others had been on real missions, at least in tanks. Noah wasn’t positive, but he figured everyone had seen some sort of action during his or her first tour with the grunts. Noah hadn’t seen much combat with 3/14, not like his sister, but he’d gotten a taste of it, at least.
Noah flipped off his overlay. He had no control over his route now, so it would just be a distraction. When the platoon was in a wedge, his job, as the driver for Tank 3, was to lock himself onto Tank 4’s right rear as its wing tank. Charlie-One-Four, which was the platoon sergeant’s tank, would guide on Charlie-One-One, the platoon commander’s tank, and Charlie-One-Two, the wing tank for the lieutenant, would be to the left rear of her. The lieutenant would be leading the way, and the other tanks would guide off of her, or in Noah’s case, off the platoon sergeant, to the objective. Noah’s job was to keep his distance and guide on Tank 4, but he also had to watch what was right in front of him. It wouldn’t do anyone much good to drive into a ditch and flip or hit something and lose a track.
“I want to get to the release point quickly,” the lieutenant said, something to which Noah, not wanting to spend time in the open, heartily agreed. “As soon as we reach it, Red Section will enter here, and Blue, I want you to enter here.”
Noah looked down at his display where the lieutenant had highlighted in red where his section of two tanks would enter and in blue, where the other section would enter the town. Blue Section’s entry point was two blocks to the south of where the lieutenant was going to enter the town, which let the platoon cover more ground, but left the two sections unable to support each other quickly if need be.
“Initial speed, 45, but ping on me and be ready to dash on my command.”
Noah could match the designated speed by entering it on the autorev or controlling it manually. The autorev worked well on highways, but over open terrain, most drivers, Noah included, preferred to keep control themselves.
He revved the motor, watching the tac-line as he waited for the order to move out. The fusion generator could put out 200,000 watts, or 7,000,000 kilojoules/hour, and it was pretty foolproof. That was more than enough to power the tank’s systems, but the motor could be touchy at times, lagging the power surge. As he checked it, the rev was smooth, though, with nary a blip on the readouts.
“Don’t blow the motor,” Staff Sergeant Cremineli yelled down at him from the commander’s hatch.
Noah had been the staff sergeant’s driver for only a month now, but one thing that had become evident was that his tank commander didn’t trust the beasts. Sure, a Davis could break down, but they were well-made, and the motors didn’t “blow.” At school, the instructors had told them that the initial Teledyne motors had some issues, but those had been worked out and fixed years ago.
This motor only had seven hours on it, practically brand new. After landing at Konrysville, the tanks had been loaded onto HE haulers, large flatbeds designed to transport Marine armor over long distances, saving wear and tear on tanks and Aardvark personnel carriers. The Anvil had only started this road march at zero-dark-thirty this morning, 17 klicks back up the valley.
He didn’t bother to argue, though, and cut back on the power feed. His filters were at 94%, so he flipped the flow, forcing air out in a powerful blast.
“What the hell, Lysander? You trying to let everyone know we’re here?” the TC shouted back through the hatch again, this time kicking Noah in the shoulder. “Cut that shit out!”
Like they can’t see us now, if they’re even there?
Technically, the reverse blast of air could be picked up by some types of scanners, but they’d just come down the valley in the open. If eyes were looking for them, they’d have already been spotted. And now, their guns were trained on the town, so it wasn’t as if they were invisible even to a set of Mark 1, Mod 1 eyeballs.
Once again, however, Noah complied, smiling, though, when his filters read 98%. Clogged filters would shut down a tank to keep from destroying the motor. The Davis could still fire when that happened, but an immobile tank became a dead tank right quick.
“On me, move out,” the lieutenant passed over the platoon net.
Forty meters to his left, Lessa Franklin, Charlie-One-One’s driver, goosed the Kiss of Death over the small rise and forward to the town. Looking out his side block, he watched as the Kiss of Death pushed her nose into the air, exposing her underbelly for a moment before crashing down and heading out. As soon as the platoon commander’s tank reached 20 meters out, Charlie-One-Four pushed forward, moving into position.
“Get ready, Lysander,” the staff sergeant told him. “And don’t expose our belly!”
Which was impossible, Noah knew. Unless he turned and drove down the wash to get around the rise—which would put him way out of position—the mere fact that he was clearing the rise would expose the Anvil’s undercarriage for a second or two.
Noah ignored the TC. He waited until the gunny and Ba-Boom were 20 meters out, then hit the dual accelerators. The Anvil surged forward, nose high until enough of the tank crossed the top of the rise and fell forward with a lurch.
“Damn it, Lysander! I said don’t expose us!” the staff sergeant shouted as his feet lost purchase for a few moments as the tank bounced.
If you were buttoned up, or even open-protected, you wouldn’t be having that problem with your footing.
Noah’s TC was rapidly getting on his nerves. The man was too cautious, worrying about everything. Yet here he was standing half out of the hatch, exposed, when he should be in his seat with either the hatch closed or open 10 centimeters, the “open-protected position,” which still provided fairly decent protection while providing better visibility than being completely buttoned-up.
He pushed that train of thought out of his mind and focused on his one job, to keep in position. Chili Fulford, the gunner, and the staff sergeant on the .50 cal, would be watching for the enemy and would engage if need be. Noah had to trust them for that.
The acceleration of a Davis was impressive, and Noah quickly brought the Anvil up to 45 KPH as the platoon dashed across the lowlands. The ground was relatively smooth, but the big tanks still bounced around, their suspension unable to completely dampen the bumps and jolts. Twice, Noah’s helm
eted head slammed into the closed hatch. He’d have liked to have the hatch open, but the lieutenant had ordered the drivers to close up.
“I’m down, fuck it!” Gunny Hattori shouted over the net as the Ba-Boom suddenly swerved to the side and stopped in a cloud of dust. “Piece of shit Brysons!”
The Bryson Adjusting Track was new to the fleet, able to adjust on the fly from 500mm to 950mm in width with elevation points on the treads from 1mm to 70mm in depth. This was great in theory as it made the tanks far more maneuverable over a wide range of ground surfaces, but the life-span of the new tracks was far less than that of the older tracks they’d replaced. Still, after covering only 18 klicks, the tracks should have held up, especially over this terrain.
Should have . . .
Noah started to slow down, not sure what to do.
“One-Four, stay in place and provide overwatch. One-Three, guide on me,” the lieutenant ordered.
Noah goosed the Anvil forward, passing the stationary Ba-Boom and rushing to take her place as the remaining three tanks rushed to close the gap to the town.
“One-Three, your entry point is now this one. I’ll be taking yours,” the lieutenant passed.
Noah glanced at his display to where the platoon commander had highlighted the positions. The Anvil and the Kiss of Death were switching entry points into the town. It didn’t make much sense to him. The lieutenant needed to be where she could best control any coming fight, but she was going in alone, without a wingman, which made the Kiss of Death far more vulnerable. She probably thought she needed to take the more dangerous position, but in reality, that might put the entire platoon in a more tenuous position.
“Release,” she passed as they reached 200 meters from the edge of the town.
They hadn’t rehearsed crossing paths, but Noah figured that the hard-charging Lessa would be aggressive. He was right—she bolted right in front of him as she headed for the right entry point. Noah let her cross his path, then he turned left to his entry, pushing ahead of Charlie-One-Two, the Ball Shot.
He couldn’t enter at 45 KPH, so he slowed down, causing the staff sergeant, still in the open hatch, to fall forward and have to grab at the rim to keep himself in. Noah thought he was stupid to stay exposed like that—all the Anvil’s reactive and ablative armor did him no good if an enemy soldier decided to take a pot shot at him. Tankers didn’t have “bones,” the armor inserts infantrymen used, in their tank suits, and the durable cloth alone wouldn’t stop a round. One round to the chest, and he’d have to be resurrected and go through regen, if that was even possible.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” the staff sergeant said as they passed the first building and entered the town.
Noah checked the four APCD’s that were on each corner of the tank. These little boxes, the “Hashers,” were the close-in defense against enemy infantry. With a range of only 15 meters, they were nevertheless effective against ground troops, with both compacted-tip flechettes and sonic bursts that would kill or decapacitate anyone within their kill zone. As the tank’s driver, the APCD’s were Noah’s responsibility. He was also the secondary gunner of both the coax M104, the automatic 4mm hypervelocity mag rifle, and the M519 .50 cal. The gunner had both the tank’s main gun as well as the coax, and the TC was the primary on the .5o, but if required, either weapon could become the driver’s responsibility.
With only three crewmen to a tank, each Marine had to be flexible and handle each other’s function. Noah could even aim and fire the Anvil’s 75mm hypervelocity rail gun from his driver’s hole, if he had to. It had seemed confusing at armor school, but with the tank’s AI assisting, it became routine.
Noah wasn’t sure the railgun was the best choice for them as he drove down the deserted street. The railgun, with its sabot round, was the premier armor killer in the Marines, although he knew the Wasp pilots might take issue with that. It would destroy any known armor to 6,000 meters out at least. With that kind of range, it was not designed with MOUT operations in mind.
The Ataturk forces were equipped with the Teresas, the upgraded version of the older Tonyas. Made on Gentry, the Teresas used fuel-cell-powered motors, an upgrade over the older Tonya’s bio-diesel engines. The Teresas could lay quiet, and with a simple turn of a switch, be at full power. The fuel cell technology limited their endurance when compared to the older Tonyas and the Marines’ Davises, but they cost far less than the fusion generator-powered Marine tanks. Like the Tonyas, the Teresas were armed with the Gentry 90mm smoothbore canon. Neither had the reach of the Marine’s 75mm railgun, but within an urban area, that extreme range would never come into play. And at close range, both the 90mm HEP-T and HEAT rounds would do a number on a Davis.
Noah found himself wishing the Anvil had the Marines’ version of the 90mm cannon. The barrel was much shorter than that of the railgun, and the rate of fire was quicker. With the MGS system, a Davis could be outfitted with the railgun, the cannon, or a 20 mega-joule meson gun. The platoon had been outfitted with Weapons Mix B, which was two 75’s, one 90, and one meson gun. The Ba-Boom, now down and outside the town, had the energy mod, the lieutenant had the 90mm mod, and the Ball Shot and Anvil had the anti-tank mod.
Noah kept to the middle of the street as he slowly drove the Anvil forward. It left him in the open, but it made it more difficult for anyone on top of one of the buildings to easily engage them while simultaneously making it easier for the TC to engage an enemy soldier with the .50 cal.
If there even were soldiers there. The place was a ghost town. There was no sign of anyone, military or civilian. The scanners onboard the Jerry-John had shown nothing in the town, but still, it seemed almost too quiet to Noah as he approached the first intersection. But if the Ataturks hadn’t deemed the crossroads strategic enough to hold, then that was fine with Noah.
Noah was creeping the Anvil along at 10 KPH. At this speed, the big tank was surprisingly silent. There wasn’t any of the creaking and groaning of the first 200 years of tanks, and with the fusion generator, the propulsion was silent. The city might be deserted, but the Anvil and the Ball Shot were 40-ton ghosts making their way through the town. Two blocks away, his display showed Noah that the Kiss of Death was paralleling them 300 meters to the south, but equally as silent.
“Stop!” Chili shouted as they crossed the second intersection. “I think I’ve got something.”
Noah immediately applied the brakes, the Anvil scraping on the road as it slid to a halt, the first real sound it had made. He checked the Hasher once again, and the green activation lights were a steady reassurance.
“Tank!” the sergeant shouted as the wall of a building 40 meters ahead seem to dissolve as a 90 mm gun started swinging around to them, the gun disrupting the projection field that had hidden it.
“Engage,” the lieutenant ordered.
There was a sharp crack as the electromagnetic field accelerated the 12 kg sabot round to almost 5,000 KPH. Almost instantaneously, the Teresa exploded in a blinding flash of light, the turret, with the gun still attached, visible until it flew out of sight.
The familiar smell of ionized air swept into the crew compartment through the TC’s open hatch.
“Holy shit!” the sergeant said, his voice filled with awe.
All three of them had fired the railgun back at Camp Ceasare, and Chili had fired the Anvil’s main guns during pre-deployment quals, but firing at an enemy tank and destroying it took things to another level. Noah was in awe of the amazing power of the railgun. Just five minutes before, he’d wished they had the 90mm smoothbore on the tank, but his concern had evidently been misplaced.
His display rang for attention, and Noah tore his eyes away from the flaming hulk that had been a 60-ton tank only moments before.
“We’ve got more tanks,” the lieutenant passed as two energy blooms blossomed onto his display and started to scatter.
The Ataturk tanks had been lying quiet, and from where the destroyed tank’s gun had been pointing, they had evidently been o
riented towards New Antalya. Noah shuddered to think what would have happened had they moved with the rest of the task force to the intersection at Route 5 and the Demir Highway, then come down south to hold this objective. As the lead Davis in this two-tank section, they would have eaten a 90mm shell at point-blank range. The Anvil would be the smoking hulk instead of the Teresa.
“Two and Three, take the left tank,” Lieutenant Moore ordered.
“Two, you take the left,” Staff Sergeant Cremineli ordered, pulling up an overhead map and swiping his finger on his display, drawing a red arrow onto the road he wanted Staff Sergeant Kyle Mauser-Lopez, the Ball Shot’s TC, to take. The tank was still 50 meters behind them, and with a quick pivot, headed down the road.
“Lysander, go, go! What are you waiting for?”
“Which way?”
“Down the road,” he shouted, bending over back into the compartment, using his hand to point.
That’s all Noah needed, and the Anvil responded to his commands, almost leaping ahead, a lion chasing a wildebeest. Except a wildebeest didn’t fight back. The Teresa had teeth.
“Noah, I want a right front quarter aspect, if you can,” Chili passed. “Don’t let them get behind us.”
Noah turned left, smashed a road sign, and accelerated the Anvil down the road. A small voice of caution surfaced, reminding himself that if he’d been the Ataturk armor, he’d have mined their rear. There were hundreds of military mines available that could disable, if not destroy a Davis. But his TC said go, so he tried to push that concern away.
The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5 Page 53
