Two days ago, the lieutenant—their regular tank commander—had smashed his forehead too hard against a steel bulkhead in the main compartment. The captain had bumped Jake into the vacated slot and airlifted the lieutenant back to base.
Jake still worried about making a mistake and costing the crew their lives.
I did okay an hour ago.
The massive tracked vehicle rolled past a wrecked tri-turreted tank lying on its side. Oil leaked from the Chinese monster, staining a nearby snow-patch a dirty color. There were more of the one-hundred-ton, tri-barreled T-66 wrecks around, close to eighty enemy tanks, some of them still funneling smoke into the clear sky.
We did this. I did this.
Easily outranging the enemy, the Behemoths had taken out the entire Chinese tank brigade. It had been like America’s glory days during Desert Storm, when Iraqi Republican Guards in their Russian T-72s learned a deadly lesson about the First US Armored Division.
Jake couldn’t help but grin. Even when he saw dead Chinese tankers in grotesque postures, the grin remained. Death to the invaders—they should have stayed on their side of the Pacific if they wanted to live to a ripe old age.
Yes. It felt good to win, to defeat the enemy so decisively. No, damnit, it felt glorious. Yet a riot of emotions seethed through Jake, a mixture of not only elation but also anger and worry.
He took a phone from his pocket. With his left thumb, he brought up the text. A new order for his arrest had come from Washington, from the Militia Command Center itself. From on top of the turret of his rumbling Behemoth, Jake reread the text. The message came from the Director of Homeland Security, Max Harold. It was an arrest order and fixed with a Presidential Seal and signature.
Why can’t they leave me alone? I’m willing to die for my country. Isn’t that enough? Do they want me to lick their boots, too?
A loud beep from within the tank’s main compartment brought Jake out of his reverie.
“Corporal,” the gunner shouted from inside. “You’d better look at this.”
Jake shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and slipped into the main compartment. He closed the hatch with a clang and let his eyes adjust to the soft green light. Despite the Behemoth’s size, it was tight in here, with him, a gunner, driver and a tech.
“We got some real-time data,” the gunner was saying, a thin kid from Iowa. His name was Chet. He was a video gaming virtuoso, and even though he was younger than Jake, he was already balding, with wisps of hair on his forehead.
As Jake settled into the commander’s seat, he flipped on his screen. Images began to appear. The Air Force used a high-flying stealth UAV to provide real-time intelligence. The Chinese usually found such drones soon enough and shot them down. This was a lucky break to have one up now.
“Looks like enemy laser tanks,” Chet, the gunner, said, his voice raising an octave.
Jake swallowed. He saw them down there from the UAV’s vantage. The six hundred ton, multi-trailered vehicles were unmistakable. Normally, the Chinese used the MC ABMs for antiair and antimissile coverage. In a pinch, like the famous German 88s during WWII, they could employ their cannons against land targets. The powerful lasers had fantastic range. According to the data, the enemy vehicles were a little over thirty miles away. At that range, the lasers could slice-the-e of a Behemoth’s outer lettering.
“Why aren’t they firing at us?” Jake asked.
“Look at the grid numbers, at 22-A-4,” Chet said. “There’s a rise of land in the way. Don’t want to call it a hill. It’s too low for that. But once we top that rise, the fireworks will start. We’re too far ahead of our artillery to call in support to help us with them.”
“Do you think they know we’re here?” Jake asked.
“Ask the captain,” Chet suggested.
Jake didn’t like asking the captain anything. It made it look as if he didn’t know how to run his tank.
“They must know about us if they’re lining up like that,” Jake said.
“Agreed,” Chet said. “That’s what I think.”
Sweat slicked Jake’s underarms. He hated when that happened. Why couldn’t he remain calm and collected at times like this? Why did his gut knot and twist as if he was afraid? He’d done this before, an hour ago, in fact.
Breathing through his nostrils, Jake sought for calm, for visible confidence in front of the crew. Being in charge definitely made things harder and he wasn’t sure why.
The laser could strike the distance, but so could they. The rail gun was the heart of the Behemoth system. Unlike conventional tanks, the main weapon didn’t use gunpowder shells. Instead, the rail gun had two magnetized rods lining the inner cannon. The projectile or “shell” completed the current between the two rods. The direction of the current expelled the round, firing the shell and breaking the current. It gave the projectile incredible speed, one of its greatest powers.
Like a regular tank’s sabot, it used kinetic energy, the same kind of energy that sent a bullet smashing through a man’s body. An M16 rifle fired a bullet at the muzzle velocity of 930 meters per second. The Behemoth’s cannon fired its round at 3,500 meters per second, over three times as fast. That was approximately Mach 10 at sea level.
The rail gun had much greater range than a gunpowder shell, less bullet drop, faster time on target and less wind drift. In other words, it bypassed the physical limitations of conventional firearms. In fact, the rounds flew so fast they ionized the air around them. The Behemoth rail gun theoretically fired farther, faster and with greater penetrating power than any comparable conventional weapon. Its range was also much greater than the tank’s targeting precision, meaning it was easily possible to fire a Behemoth round over one hundred miles. At half that range—fifty miles—most rail gun rounds missed. At twenty-five miles, the cannons achieved great accuracy. The Chinese were over thirty miles away: near enough to hit some of the time, but not every time.
“Looks like we’re about to have a quick-draw contest,” Jake said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
“They’re sitting still and have likely already sighted in,” Chet said. “They have the advantage.”
Jake kept himself from glancing at Chet. Having been in combat many times in the last few years, he was the veteran here. Thus, it galled Jake that Chet sounded more relaxed than he did. Jake had a few years on the others. Yet the truth was that they were all young enough that games of cool took on monumental importance.
“Higgins!” a man said on the screen.
Jake twitched at the voice. Some might even have said he jumped or started in his seat. He didn’t dare look to see if the others frowned at each other as if to say, “Look how jumpy Jake is. The corporal’s gotta settle down.”
“Yes, sir,” Jake said, as he clicked a button on his chair, having to press harder than normal. The thing was sticky because he’d set too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the arm. On the screen, the drone’s data imaging disappeared and the captain’s face took its place.
The captain had a thick mustache curving down to his chin. He wore his tanker’s cap at an angle as if he were some Confederate cavalry commander from the War Between the States. The captain was from Alabama and had a twang that wouldn’t quit.
“You see laser tank number five?” the captain asked in his slow drawl.
“Starting from the right, sir?” Jake asked.