A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  Sitnikov spent a few minutes, speaking in good Spanish with hardly a trace of accent, introducing himself and a few of his key personnel. He then explained, in fairly broad terms, the training schedule the tankers-to-be would follow for the next three months. Lastly he went into an enthusiastic description of the tanks themselves.

  Sitnikov began, "My friends, what I am standing on is one of the best tanks in the world. "What is it about this tank that makes it so special?" you might well ask. Well, I shall tell you."

  Sitnikov turned to his right, walked forward a few steps, and placed his hand atop the long barrel protruding from the turret. "This gun, the 125mm smoothbore, is the most powerful tank gun on Terra Nova today. Firing depleted uranium or tungsten-carbide penetrators, this gun will defeat the armor of any tank to be found on the modern battlefield, not excepting even the Cheetah II, the Federated States' Creighton, the Zion Chariot or the Anglian Contender, although not always in the frontal arc where the armor is thickest. Those tanks often can't even kill each other in the frontal arc. As far as the Sumeri tanks you will face, it would kill them at a range exceeding that at which those tanks can hit and penetrate the T-38's own armor."

  Sitnikov moved back a step and placed his hand on a boxlike attachment sitting above the gun on a rail projecting from the turret. "Moreover," he said, "to destroy targets past the range at which the gun can hit or penetrate, the T-38 carries a number of rounds of the antiarmor missile, the AT-111 Mirror. This is a guided antitank missile, fired through the barrel. In all the world outside of the Volgan Republic, only the Federated States' Phillips light tank carries a similar weapon. But the Phillips' gun-missile system lacks the range of the Mirror. It also has the distressing habit of suffocating the crew with exhaust from the rocket motor. The Mirror has no such unfortunate defect."

  Sitnikov removed his hand from the Mirror's guidance package, sat back onto the turret, and gave the turret a healthy slap. "These T-38s also boast steel-ceramic-plastic-depleted uranium composite armor similar to the type of armor found on the other most modern tanks. I must be honest, however, and tell you that the T-38's composite is not as strong as the armor used by the FS, the Anglians, and the Sachsens. That, however, makes little difference because the T-38 is much harder to hit than those tanks." At the key word 'tanks,' the five Volgans in front of Sitnikov simultaneously flipped over charts on which were drawn silhouettes of the other tanks he had mentioned, superimposed over the T-38's. Sitnikov continued. "As you can see from the charts in front of you, the T-38 is only about half as big a target as the others. Gentlemen, I assure you, in armored warfare size does matter. You can afford a little less armor when you are twice as hard to hit. Even so, your armor is not much less." His finger pointed at some layered, blocklike additions around the turret. "See these blocks? Your T-38s will boast the newest reactive armor, Engagement-5, giving an additional 120 millimeters worth of steel protection against solid shot and 500 millimeters against hollow charge, HEAT, ammunition. From the front, nothing the Sumeris have can penetrate. Nada, my friends."

  Used to second rate, light armor—at best—the long-service veterans of the old BDC breathed a sigh of relief, even as the newer men grinned or, some of them, whistled.

  For his part, Mendoza simply grew dreamy-eyed at the prospect of having one of these beautiful war machines under his control.

  "Moreover, "Sitnikov continued, "the tanks you will receive once they are ready will have four significant advantages over even the usual T-38."

  Sitnikov walked closer to the turret and pointed at a device mounted to the side of the turret, behind the gun. "This is called a "Blinder." When the tank or the infantry carriers are attacked by guided missiles, either automatically or when the tank commander flicks a switch inside, the Blinder will send out coded infrared signals that mimic those sent out by the guided missile. This confuses the missile's computerized guidance system so badly that the missile is usually sent into something like low orbit. That; or into the ground. Think of it as a nervous breakdown, computer style. The Blinder also warns and gives a directional indicator for laser beams "painting" the tank for a laser guided missile. In addition, it launches prismatic smoke grenades to screen you from the view of enemy gunners."

  Pointing then at the oddly placed blocks around the turret, then at an ovoid device above them, Sitnikov announced, "Moreover, a number of the tanks you will receive in the desert will have mounted an active defense system, the "Sand Blaster." This is a system which automatically senses incoming projectiles, computes the best intercept point, then fires off the correct one to three of these other explosive blocks to deflect or damage the projectile. I have never personally used this system, but it is said to be amazing . . . effective against both missiles and kinetic energy weapons. Yes, even against tank-fired long rod penetrators. The Sand Blaster is new, absolutely new. Outside of a few prototypes, our own tanks do not have it yet. My government is giving it to you for combat testing.

  "Then, my friends, look here at this box. This is a thermal imager much like those found in other world-class tanks. The tanks you will receive will have an improved version.

  "Lastly, your tanks will come with the ammunition carousel and storage inverted to give you approximately three times as many antitank rounds, and fewer antipersonnel high explosive rounds. In the desert, facing tanks, this will be a good thing for you."

  As Sitnikov moved back to stand over the tanks engine and wax lyrical over the power plant—in this case the 1250 horsepower turbine engine that replaced the less powerful 1000 horsepower diesel job found on most Volgan heavy armor, Parilla asked Carrera in a whisper, "Do you believe any of that?"

  Carrera answered equally softly, "Oh, maybe every other word. That turbine is going to suck gas. Although I could be wrong; don't sell the Volgans short. Still, I doubt that Sitnikov believes it all, either. But it doesn't matter what you, or I, or even what Sitnikov believes." Sweeping his hand across the backs of the mostly young Balboans listening raptly to the Volgan, Carrera concluded, "All that matters is what they believe."

  Though Carrera had spoken to Parilla softly, Siegel had heard. He leaned forward over their shoulders and added, "Actually, sirs, what the Sumeris believe is likely to be of some importance, too. You know, 'They can because they think they can' and all. Rather, 'They can't because they think they can't,'"

  Carrera was puzzled at the reference. He asked, "Homer? The Trojan assault on the Greek camp?"

  "Virgil, sir. The boat race."

  "Ah, Virgil."

  Parilla said, "You know, Patricio, there is something to be said for naming weapons rather than numbering them. Why don't we give these tanks and the other equipment names?"

  "Not a bad idea. Any thoughts?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact. I was thinking that we could name the tanks for a predatory cat." Parilla held up his hands defensively. "Yes, I know, so did some rather unsavory characters both in our history and Old Earth's. Not all their ideas were wrong, merely for them having had them. So . . . yes, the most powerful predatory cat in this hemisphere."

  "Smilodons?" Carrera asked. "I don't like that; having our tanks nicknamed 'smilies.' Or named for captive animals. Or named for a nearly extinct species."

  Parilla grimaced. "I hadn't thought of smilodons. They were such a danger, and their fangs and pelts such a prize, that they're almost never found outside of a zoo anymore. How about we call the tanks . . . mmm . . . 'jaguars.'"

  Carrera shrugged. The jaguars, beautiful as they are, are endangered, but nothing like old saber-tooth. They exist in zoos, of course, but they're mostly free. Maybe . . . oh, why the hell not?

  "What about the lighter armor, Raul, the PBM-100s?"

  Parilla thought about that one before asking, "Those things swim, don't they?"

  "Yes . . . yes, they swim pretty well, I understand. They've got waterjets underneath."

  "Ocelots?" Parilla suggested. "They swim, after all."

  Still atop the tank, Sitn
ikov was coming to the end of his presentation.

  "Now, gentlemen, you may recall that I began by saying this is one of the best tanks in the world. Surely that is a matter of some worry to you, not being the best. Never fear, the only tank better than this is the White Eagle. That, with all the modifications I mentioned, is what you will actually receive for the fight. . . . "

  Carrera and Parilla then left for a different part of Imperial Range. There the infantry, artillery, and other professional cadres were going through a training course in staggered groups, some pushing the new trainees while others learned to use the new equipment. Knowledge was power, and Carrera wanted his subordinate leaders to have power over their troops by virtue of their superior knowledge. Therefore, they had to learn the new equipment before the trainees ever laid eyes upon it.

  Kirov, Volga, 15/4/460 AC

  "Damn your eyes, take it back!" an infuriated Raikin demanded.

  "What do you mean 'take it back'? There's nothing wrong with that block. Nothing!"

  Raikin reached out his right hand, grabbing a surly looking machinist by the ear. "You smelly little twat," he hissed. "I was boring cylinders when you were pissing on the floor and I know what is and what isn't a good block. Come with me."

  Across the factory floor Raikin dragged the shrilly protesting machinist. A few people stopped to look briefly. Not many did, however. This had become normal. The tyranny of the quality control teams had replaced the dictatorship of the proletariat.

  Reaching the block where it rested on a cart by his tank, Raikin pulled the machinist's head down. "Show her, Stefan."

  With a grimace, the one-eyed man set a micrometer and showed the setting to the machinist. Then he plunged it into an open cylinder and rattled it around. The machinist could not hear the rattling, of course, not over the drone of the factory. But the micrometer moved where it should not have been able to move.

  "Now come with me. I am going to show you, once and for all, how to bore a damned cylinder."

  Hand Grenade Range,

  Fort Cameron, 21/4/460 AC

  Private Cruz was feeling rather pleased with himself today. He had been among the first in the century to qualify to throw a live grenade. Earlier he'd raced through the grenade assault course, proving that he could handle one of the little bombs. Now he waited in line to move up to the pit from which he would throw five live fragmentation grenades. One of the instructor corporals motioned for Cruz to stand and move up to the pit.

  At about that point it really sank in, Holyfuckingshit! They want me to hold a live bomb in my hand?

  When Cruz reached the pit from which he was to throw his grenades he was met by First Centurion Martinez. Martinez looked the new private up and down and asked, "Feeling a little cocky today, are we, son?"

  Cruz answered, "First Centurion, I haven't felt cocky since coming to this . . . establishment."

  "That's good, chico, because today cocky can get you killed." Martinez returned to business. "Private Cruz, at this station you will engage targets under a variety of circumstances with live fragmentation grenades. Do you understand why these grenades are called 'defensive' grenades?"

  "Yes, Centurion." He parroted, "They are called 'defensive' because if you throw them while advancing or even standing you will be within the burst radius when they go off. Therefore they are only to be used while behind cover."

  "That is correct, Cruz. However, cover means different things. Let me ask another question. How long after you pull the pin and release the handle will these grenades explode?"

  "About four to five seconds, Centurion."

  "Also good. So you understand that if you throw immediately there is a good chance the enemy will throw the grenade back at you?"

  Cruz answered, "Yesss . . . Centurion," rather more slowly and suspiciously. He wasn't sure he liked the direction in which Martinez was heading.

  Martinez sighed and continued, a philosophical note creeping into his voice. Idly, he tossed a grenade up a few times, catching it on the descent. "You see, Cruz, any fool can throw a grenade as far as his arm will send it. Any fool can throw one as soon as he releases the spoon. You, however, are going to learn to be a very special kind of a fool." Martinez's tone changed. "Take the first grenade in hand, Private."

  Cruz, paling, took a grenade from a table in the pit. Martinez ordered him to remove the safety clip, and pull the pin. Cruz obeyed. Then Martinez grabbed the wrist of Cruz's throwing arm and said, "At my command you will release the spoon and count to three with me. Then you will throw the grenade as far down range as you can. Release the spoon."

  Cruz, eyes gaping wide, looked at Martinez like he had lost his mind. Martinez repeated himself, "Private Cruz, release the spoon."

  Mouth suddenly open and gone dry, Cruz removed his thumb from over the grenade safety handle and watched as the metal safety handle flew off. He followed Martinez in what seemed an impossibly slow count to three. It's possible that the count seemed especially slow because the private's heart was racing at several hundred beats per minute. Martinez then released the boy's wrist, allowing him to propel the grenade over the walls of the pit. Cruz leaned back against the wall, knees gone weak, at about the time the grenade went off.

  Martinez gave the boy a few moments to let his heart stop racing. Then he said, "Very good, Cruz. Now you are going to do it again. This time, though, you will do it entirely on your own. After that, instead of throwing the grenade as far as you can, you will lob one so that it explodes just on the other side of the pit wall. Then we will go out into the impact area. There you will use one of your grenades to clear a section of trench. You will be inside the trench, but around the corner from where you throw the grenade. Then you will take out a bunker. You will not, repeat not, be inside the bunker. The amount of training we have lavished upon you is beginning to make you too expensive to just throw away. Private Cruz, take a grenade."

  Later, while marching back to the company tents, Cruz reflected upon the day's events and what they meant to him. Certainly they showed that he could use a grenade. It was more than that, though. In Cruz's mind, the big lesson of the day was that he could overcome mind-numbing fear. His step acquired just a bit more spring to it.

  Kirov, Volga, 22/4/460 AC

  "Let her down easy. Easy, I say!"

  Raikin turned from the crane lowering the fifteen-ton turret to its rest. "Stefan, are you sure, sure that the recoil system is solid?"

  "I am sure, Josef. I made the bastards do it over twice. No leaks. No weak seals. I watched them from start to finish."

  The one-eyed man hesitated. "Josef?"

  "Yes?"

  "It feels good, you know . . . seeing good work done and doing good work."

  And Raikin suddenly understood why the factory sounded different. "Yes, it does, Stefan."

  "Stefan . . . why don't you pick up the wife and kids and come by this evening after work. A little vodka. A little food. For you are right; it does feel good. I never knew it could."

  Imperial Range, 24/4/460 AC

  "Move out!" crackled in Mendoza's headset. He was already shifting gear to reverse. Smoothly he backed out of his tank's hull-down firing position. Another quick shift of the gears and twist of the steering yoke—I am getting good at this—and his Jaguar sprang forward and to the left. Mendoza's body was pressed back against the rough cushion of the driver's seat.

  An alarm buzzed in Mendoza's ears. He swore as he brought the tank to a complete halt, brakes squealing as his foot slammed down. His hand felt for the gearshift, then threw the tank into idle. Mendoza popped the hatch and was immediately surrounded by a cloud of red smoke billowing from a canister. The acrid smoke irritated Mendoza's eyes and throat, forcing him to tear up and to cough violently.

  Half out of the hatch, Mendoza twisted his body around to see his tank's Volgan trainer climbing aboard, face red with fury. With frantic gestures supplemented by curses in mixed Spanish, Russian and Azeri, Praporschik Suleymanov pounded on turr
et top, screaming. Reduced to their essence, his words amounted to, "Left! Right! Left! Right! Always you do the same. Don't you think your fucking enemy is going to pay attention? Shift! Vary! Alternate! Don't be so damned predictable!"

  "Yes, sir," answered Mendoza's chief, Sergeant Perez, once he was made to understand the problem. To Mendoza, Perez said, "Don't take it to heart, Jorge. It's my job to tell you which way to go. So . . . my fault. We'll do better in the future."

  "Right, Sergeant. Got a set of dice to randomize?" Thank you, Sergeant Perez, for not blaming me. But I could do better and I will.

  Kirov, Volga, 3/5/460 AC

  "Do you think we could have done any better, Josef?"

  "Maybe," Raikin admitted. "But if so, I don't see where. I don't know about the others, but this tank has no flaws." He looked at the vehicle, admiring it from the fresh paint of its hull, to the gleaming treads to the spotless rubber around the road wheels. Soon a heavy transporter would come to take it to the port. He would miss it, miss the sense of purpose it had given his life.

  "Did you test fire the commander's machine gun as I told you?" Raikin asked.

  "Yes, even that. Two hundred and fifty rounds through the barrel, just as you insisted. Then I cleaned it. Do you think it is enough?"

  "Maybe not. But we did do the best we could."

  Stefan smiled. "We actually can do a little better."

  Raikin twisted his head, looking quizzical.

  "Well . . . I was thinking about that tank crew; the one that will get this tank. I have been out in the desert, alone and scarred shitless."

  "So?"

  Stefan pulled a liter bottle of vodka from his lunch pack. "Does anyone in the factory write Spanish? I'd like to leave them a note with this."