by G. R. Carter
He reached down and grabbed a different radio. “Commander Fredericks, we’ve got trouble up here. I want you to get all your men together and rally just outside of town behind us. Get the Mark 3s started up, we’re going to need them right now. If anything breaks through our line, it’s yours, okay? No time to explain, just follow the plan.”
More static and then a simple, “Roger that.”
With Fredericks squared away, Hamilton picked up a third radio, one that patched him directly to the leader of Old Main College.
“Julia, we have a problem. Are you there?”
“Yes, Phil, what is it?” A stern but pleasant voice cut through the noise.
“We’ve just been hit by a recon party. Three of your men are down. We took out the scouts, but I think we can assume there is something headed our way we won’t like. I have my warriors on the hill just east of town where we were holding the exercise. Your remaining troops are with me to guard the flank. Commander Fredericks has the rest of my troopers between me and you. But I suggest you mobilize everything you have. Just a gut feeling.”
“Okay, Phil, I understand. I’ve trusted your intuition this far and it’s worked out for us.”
“I’ll keep you posted on what I’m seeing out here. And Julia…” Phil paused for a moment.
“Yes, Phil?”
“Whatever happens, make our merger work.”
“Is that an order?”
“I can’t give a President an order, Julia, I’m just a simple farmer. But it is a request from a friend.”
“Phil, I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but now I’m worried. You’ve been through how many bad situations before? This is the first time I’ve heard concern in your voice like this.”
“I don’t know, Julia. The recent reports of the New America raids in the outer settlements have me concerned. I know those Grays are bad news and we’ll have to deal with them at some point. Just not today.”
“We’re getting there. And closer to ready every day that goes by. You always tell me to trust the plan. Now I’m telling you; Phil, trust the plan.”
Julia Ruff was one of a handful of people who could successfully give Hamilton a pep talk, and he needed one now. Maybe it was watching six souls be cut down for something he still didn’t quite understand. Or maybe it was a sixth sense he developed that told him trouble was coming. Either way, he had to face the situation at hand.
“You’re right, Julia. Thanks for the speech. You should run for President someday.”
“I would, but I was already drafted, remember?”
Silence hung over the static.
“Phil, you still there?” Julia asked.
“I am. I’ll keep things solid out here, Julia. You get your people ready to fight. Out.”
No more words, now the action plan. The same plan honed over dozens, maybe hundreds of skirmishes and firefights during salvage missions to the ghostly megacities. There were plenty of people left in those hellholes, but none of them seemed interested in honest trade. Okaw Valley crews salvaged what they needed where they could find it. Even took it by force if groups didn’t want to let it go. That was a fact he wasn’t proud of. But his goal was to save as many of his people as possible, the best he knew how. And those raids were training for the real combat to come. He would have to trust that God would understand when he met Him face to face.
Dust rose now from just over the next rise. How did I not spot that before? He suddenly regretted not having a couple of his Raptors up in the air. The converted crop dusters were supposed to do a flyover during the town’s Alliance Day parade tomorrow. Aviation fuel was scarce, though, and the Wizards had yet to perfect a blend of soy diesel replicating the high octane juice needed for flight. Hamilton lamented the decision to save the fuel allotment for the brief appearance above their new allies. Theatrics should have taken a back seat to security. Still learning all this strategic military leader stuff.
“Doug, loaded and ready?” Phil called up to his gunner. Whenever Phil could get out on a mission with his vehicle, he would ride navigator. Doug Hanks, one of the original Ten Vets, served as gunner and vehicle commander in Phil’s frequent absence. Johnny Jackson drove for them as usual, a man who understood the concept of driving three steps ahead. That’s how you had to drive the land yacht known as a Turtle: always planning ahead. The newer version was a much more stable platform. But Phil insisted on hanging on to this original beast for now, like a ship’s captain who refuses to acknowledge obsolescence.
The first batch of the new Mark 3 tanks was single man crew, which Phil considered a shame. There was a real brotherhood that came from serving together in these tin cans.
“Ready, boss man,” Doug replied. Phil didn’t really have to ask, he just liked going through the checklist more for himself than his crew.
“Johnny, we’re not going to be able to wait for reinforcements to arrive before engaging these guys,” Phil sighed to his driver. “We’re going to have to bloody their noses to slow them down a little.”
Johnny paused, “How do you even know what’s out there, boss? Might just be a small raiding party that didn’t know what they were getting into.”
“Look at the dust, man. Besides, how many Ditchmen do you know that scout ahead in regular army equipment? No, it’s the Grays. I know it is. They probably figured they could catch the Alliance leadership here and take us out. It’s the smart move. The Grays are asses, but they’re smart asses,” Phil quipped.
Chuckles briefly broke the tension in the vehicle. Jokes aside, the Founder’s men swore he was calmer amid flying bullets then in a civic meeting. Hamilton morphed from small-time farmer into the unquestioned leader of an alliance of free territories over the space of a few short years, leaving none to question his skill as a warrior.
“Alright boss man, whatcha got in mind this time?” Johnny asked, expecting the unexpected.
“This time,” Phil smiled, “we go straight at them.”
Johnny revved the diesel V–10 engine, feeling the three-ton, four-wheel drive monster lurch towards whatever was over that horizon. The last time they met the Grays in a skirmish they fought to a draw. Phil knew they had trucks mounted with .50 caliber guns, and that made up the bulk of their mobile force. That was a plenty effective weapon, and it could penetrate Turtle armor with a straight hit. Confident in the new plate armor the Wizards introduced to the Turtles last month, Hamilton intended to put the toughest part of the shell towards the Gray forces.
Only the farm-critical Mark 2s and new Mark 3s got produced now in the former Caterpillar Tractor factories. But the old Snapping Turtles were still a critical part of the Allied fighting force. Since all their combat plans called for them to continue to be integrated as a fast strike force, upgrades were continuously produced.
Phil knew that even the new armor wouldn’t hold up in a slugfest with the Grays, so he intended to slice right through them, guns blazing, and then circle back trying to eliminate the command element of the attacking force. Refugees arriving from New America provided helpful intelligence on Gray tactics. They informed SDC leaders that Gray commanders led their forces from the back. Not out of cowardice, but because their communications were direct line sets. There was no way of surveying the whole battle field from the front or middle. Gray commanders held a small force back with their vehicles ready to deploy and exploit any break in the enemy lines.
Finally, the Gray line came into view. Uh–oh, Phil thought, this really isn’t a raiding party. Humvees in a wedge formation, large transport trucks behind…
What is that? Is that a tank? Of course it was, he recognized the outline immediately, but just couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
Well, this is beginning to look a lot like the Charge of the Light Brigade. Can’t turn back now, we’d be grinder meat.
“Punch it, Johnny! We gotta get by that tank and behind to the Humvee with the big whip antenna!” Phil shouted over the engines.
“Do
ug, lock onto that command truck and waste it!” he shouted up to his gunner.
Through the observation glass built into the nose of the Turtle, he saw the Gray commander’s Humvee lurch to a halt with smoke pouring out of the engine compartment. Doug was an experienced gunner, used to fighting through ambushes, and knew exactly what to do. Pieces of metal and sparks didn’t stop flying until the last man stumbled out of the burning vehicle.
“Good shooting, now fire on anything that’s close!”
Johnny kept the engine floored until they circled around the burning hulk of their original target. As they made the turn, Phil noticed that Doug wasn’t firing anymore. “Is it a jam, Doug?” he yelled over his shoulder, with one eye on a tree line he was thinking of having Johnny drive towards. “Doug?”
Nothing. Just silence came from the gunner’s station.
“Johnny, something’s wrong. Get us to that tree line ASAP so I can get a handle on things.”
As the Turtle lurched forward again, the interior exploded with flying pieces…the New American tank’s machine guns found their range. Johnny slumped over, suddenly still as though fast asleep. Shrapnel from the damaged interior sliced wounds all over Hamilton’s body. Wetness crept into the old racing fire suit he used as fire protection.
Lots of pain, probably bad, but I can still function.
Quickly as his numbed senses would allow, he unbuckled Johnny from the driver’s safety harness and let his friend fall to the floor of the vehicle. Sorry, old pal, I hate that it ends this way for us. He didn’t even bother to check on Doug; he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what happened to his friend half-exposed to flying metal.
He settled himself into the driver’s seat as bullets once again struck the metal plating surrounding him. No time for the harness. His thinking was a little cloudier now. There was no fear, just rage at what happened to his friends and what was heading for his men and his son down in the town below.
No question in his mind what was next. Job to do. Can’t let those Gray snakes get my guys. Or my little guy either. Phil smiled briefly. Alex, his little guy, was six foot three and two hundred pounds. Already battle-hardened and ready to take his place in the SDC. Still my little man. That made the next move easier to accept.
Last chance, tank coming. If that thing gets loose among our troops, even the Mark 3s won’t stop it. Only solution, try to damage it. Take out the treads at least. Make it a sitting duck until the Wizards can get a heavier weapon up here to finish it off. How? Don’t have anything heavy enough to do that…
…Wait, if I ram it from the side that should damage the track wheels enough. Maybe even do some damage inside. Okay, I can do that. Gonna be close, and hurt a bunch. But no choice now. Rev the engine, slam into gear. Try to get the angle on it so it can’t swing that big gun around. Or the machine guns either. Here goes, keep your focus, don’t miss. Only one shot at this.
The roar of the engine kept Phil from hearing the machine gun fire reaching out to stop his vehicle as it barreled toward the tank. Metal struck metal, but not enough to stop the bulky vehicle as it continued to gain momentum and kinetic energy.
Martin Fredericks came over the rise in one of the new Mark 3s flanked by others driven by Alex and Richardson. Fredericks watched in horror as he witnessed the Founder’s vehicle disappear into a blast of smoke, dust and fire as it made full speed contact with the New American tank. The old armored Turtle scored an almost direct hit to the side skirts, causing enough impact to slightly lift the heft of the massive metal beast. He witnessed the left drive track come off as momentum carried it forward several more yards, then grind to a halt.
The Founder’s vehicle was a shredded pile of burning metal; clearly no one could have survived the impact or the aftermath. Fredericks watched helplessly as black exhaust smoke poured from Alex’s Mark 3, the young man’s vehicle charging the stricken tank. Screaming into his handheld radio, Fredericks pleaded for Alex to come back. There was no stopping the lust for revenge of the fallen Founder’s son.
He keyed his handheld that was wired to broadcast to all SDC vehicles: “All units, advance immediately. But avoid direct engagement of that tank! Work around both sides, and aim for any tall antennas anywhere you see them!”
Limited visibility out of the crew compartment of the Mark 3 meant he needed to lower the blast shields around the safety glass. Fredericks trusted the layered safety glass and metal cage to protect him against most caliber weapons. He needed to survey the battlefield, making the break in protocol worth the risk. Hours of training in the cockpit took over as he began to select and destroy targets ahead. Setting a course to follow Alex, he was able to rotate the turret to engage targets without veering the machine itself. He had been around the amazing M1A1 Abrams tank in the old American army, which was the most amazing weapons platform ever put on land. This was not even close to the same level of technology, but the concept remained the same. Get to where I'm going fast, and break stuff on the way.
The wounded New American tank seemed to be the only heavily armored vehicle the Grays had. Rapid-fire 20-millimeter cannons mounted beside Fredericks reached out from the Mark 3 and punched through the thin metal skin of the enemy vehicles with its shells. Thank you Creator for the abilities of the Wizards. Return fire thudded off of his armor and caused the shatter-resistant glass to spider crack, reminding him to also give thanks he was no longer an infantryman.
Several of the Grays' Humvees and trucks now burned along the field as the remaining Mark 3s joined the fight, interspersed with a dozen Snapping Turtles. The Turtles were faster, but Fredericks saw they were keeping their discipline, staying close with the Mark 3s to keep effective fire going down range. No need for friendly fire to cause any more damage than the Grays already had.
But nothing was stopping Alex, cornstalks and turf were flying underneath from his tracks as he drove his Mark 3 towards his dad’s ruined vehicle. Shells continued to fire out of the Mark 3's cannon, striking the tank over and over. Fredericks knew Alex possessed natural talent with the weapon, but he was amazed at how many times the shells found their target during the mad dash. Few shots went wide, even as Alex forced his vehicle forward at the maximum speed it would give him. Twenty-millimeter shells probably wouldn’t penetrate the heavy plate armor, but the softer metal of the long gun, machine guns and radio antenna were a different story. The shells shredded anything outside of the turret, then destroyed the drive wheels. The scarred tank sat helpless, awaiting its final fate.
An uneasy break in the fighting occurred as Alex’s Mark 3 reached the site of the collision. Time seemed to stop as though the grieving young man couldn’t figure out what to do next. He succeeded in his charge across the field but Alex was smart enough not to leave the safety of the armored canopy, though Fredericks knew that’s precisely what he wanted to do. Instead, the turret of the Mark 3 swung around and emptied its remaining shells into any Gray vehicle it could reach. Most of the Grays were retreating, even though numerically they still outnumbered the Allied forces three to one. The shock appearance of the Mark 3s, their command vehicles destroyed and main battle tank sitting useless took the fight from the remaining New America forces. Fredericks wasn’t sure if they would regroup and attack again. Or maybe use the force of the counterattack and the loss of so many of their vehicles as an excuse to withdraw completely, he considered.
One thing Fredericks did know… the Founder’s action delaying the surprise attack left the Alliance troops the time needed to dig in on this ridge. Raptors were surely scrambled and searching out targets. Rage and desire for revenge would add an extra edge to the troops filling in around him. Phil Hamilton’s sacrifice saved this town, his men, and his sons. The Alliance the Founder created now formed a solid rock the Grays, New America, would break against if they tried another attack.
*****
Illinois University – TASK FORCE 2 ASSEMBLY AREA
Colonel Darian Walsh, Supreme Commander, Reconstruction Forces of New Am
erica, unconsciously shifted weight from his injured leg. The never healing wound radiated pain throughout his body, the constant throb offsetting the joy of his greatest victory during the quest to reconstruct the United States. Today’s let down would be another to counter any success he had in the past.
From an elevated wooden platform he overlooked the muddy vehicle yard used to assemble his Task Force 2. Or what’s left of Task Force 2, he thought dejectedly. Over one hundred vehicles of all shapes and sizes left this yard just days ago; now he was looking at about half that number. Many that did return arrived battered and scarred. Guardsmen disembarked from their vehicles as they rolled to a halt, while the few surviving Squad Centurions made their way to Walsh’s platform. Walsh could see the anxious look on their faces as they approached.
Really seen the elephant this time. Not just a couple of dozen townspeople firing back with hunting rifles, they’ve now faced trained killers, Walsh thought.
New America Task Force 2 just faced their real first combat as an independent group, and clearly the results weren’t good.
Even with my only tank along for support, that couldn’t make up for their inexperience. I thought for sure that machine alone could break the enemy. I’ve got the reports, but I just can’t understand what happened…
“Colonel, I am working on final casualty figures, but right now we estimate that we lost thirty-one vehicles destroyed in the initial conflict. Another twenty either destroyed by enemy aircraft or damaged enough to be abandoned along the way home,” Senior Squad Centurion Alphonso Baker reported. Baker remained the most senior officer still alive. He stood at attention, his face wrapped with bandages covering a deep cut from impacting metal.
