by Tom Kratman
The march had begun, as most days began here, well before sunrise. It was a forced march, a six or seven kilometer per hour death march, to a range on the other side of the post. Typically, breakfast would not be served until they reached the range. The century would spend the next week and a half sleeping out, learning about their new rifles and how to use them. Despite the pain in his feet, legs, and back, Cruz looked forward to the training. He passed a road sign that said the rifle range was only six kilometers away. Another hour, then, and they could take a break.
But then First Centurion Martinez, marching beside the century, turned over his right shoulder and gave the command, "Double tiiime…"
The company gave out a collective groan.
"March!"
The sound caused Carrera to stop his evening walk and just listen.
"Bagpipes? Here?" He turned and followed the sound until he saw a lone man, much taller and lighter skinned than most, standing under a streetlamp with, yes, bagpipes held in his arms.
He walked over. The piper stopped playing until Carrera told him, "No… please keep going. At least until you finish the piece."
When he was done Carrera asked, "Where did you learn that?"
"Black Guard of Secordia, sir," the piper answered. He had an odd accent that took Carrera a moment's thought to identify as Gallic.
He asked, "Can you teach others? And what's a Secordian doing here?"
Herrera Airport, Ciudad Balboa, 6/4/460 AC
Generals Parilla and Carrera were on hand to see the first planeload of instructors and equipment rolling down the ramp of the Litvinov-68 heavy transport. The aircraft's Volgan crew supervised as some of the trainers carefully eased the first White Eagle tank ever to set tread in Colombia Central-or anywhere outside of the Volgan Republic and its satellites-out onto the airfield surface.
A Spanish-speaking Volgan colonel, about thirty-eight or thirtynine years old, balding and graying but with spring in his step and a happy gleam in his eyes, ran over and reported to Parilla. Rendering a snappy hand salute, the Volgan said, "Colonel Aleksandr Sitnikov, Fifth Guards Motorized Rifle Regiment, reporting as ordered, sirs."
Parilla and Carrera returned the salute, introduced themselves, and asked the Volgan what he had brought with him.
Sitnikov produced a manifest list showing that portion of the training package on the aircraft that had brought him to Balboa, as well as what was enroute from Volga over the next twenty-eight hours. The manifest had been thoughtfully provided in both Russian and extremely bad Spanish.
"I didn't prepare the list myself," the Volgan apologized.
Without asking, Sitnikov explained that most of what was coming to Balboa were "chimp models" but that a reasonable number of standard and above-standard systems were with him or enroute.
"For purposes of training these are very similar to, if not exactly the same as, what you will receive when the new systems are built. We will use these to train your leaders and maintenance personnel." Sitnikov made several checks on a form. "Where possible and where they are different we've brought subsystems that are the same as you will receive when you deploy to train with as well."
"For the rest, we have a larger number of the sort of "chimp models" the Volgan Empire usually sent to the underdeveloped world…" Sitnikov paused, then continued, "… well, they're better than chimp models, but not by all that much. These will do for teaching driving and basic gunnery. The artillery will be along later. Those pieces are all standard models." More checks were made.
Carrera asked about the trainers and maintenance specialists.
Sitnikov replied, "Each vehicle or artillery piece has either its own praporschik"- warrant officer-"or sergeant for maintenance and training. Most of them speak some Spanish, mostly courtesy of a having spent a tour in Hundred Fires when it was a Volgan satellite. The rest are generally good at the point-and-show technique we use to teach our own non-Volgan speaking recruits. In addition we are bringing a four-to-six man team for each of your companies that will be using our heavy equipment, plus another six to eight for your mechanized and artillery battalions… oh, you call them "cohorts," don't you? In any case, I am in charge overall and of the headquarters support group in particular. That consists of some combined arms and logistic specialists. In all, I bring two hundred and forty-seven men."
Carrera answered, "Very good, Colonel. The government has finally turned over the FS Army's old Imperial Range complex to conduct our training. We'll be billeting your men there. It has enough barracks space, screened and out of the rain, for your group; five large buildings, some smaller ones for the officers, a mess and a headquarters. If there is any spillover, we've got tents. I'll want you to run your own local security. We'll also have a bus service to bring your men to where they can use our recreation facilities… as well as the unofficial facilities-the brothels and bars-of which there are many in Ciudad Balboa. I've got my secretary lining up some Spanish teachers, but the whores will probably do a better job of it."
As the first heavy equipment transporter pulled up near the LI-68, Carrera motioned for Soult to approach.
"Jamey," he said, "I would like you to stay here with Colonel Sitnikov. When he has finished overseeing the unloading, and his men are on the buses to go to Imperial Range, please drive him over to the Officer's Club at Herrera Field."
Turning back to Sitnikov, he said, "Colonel, my friend here will see to your needs. Please accept our invitation to lunch as soon as you have seen to your duties." It was, of course, not a request; nor did Sitnikov take it as one.
Kirov, Volga, 7/4/460 AC
It sounded different, somehow, the factory. Raikin tried to pin down precisely what was different about it, but could not. Machinists ground at metal, as always. The steam hammer pounded, as always. As always, the actinic glare of the welders still strained the eyes. The overhead cranes and tracks squeaked… annoyingly, as always.
Raikin was surprised to find himself on one of the quality control teams, the teams that had to walk each tank through the production line. Odd, that; it wasn't as if he had ever made himself the reputation as an Udarnik- or shock worker-in the twenty-five years he'd worked here.
On reflection, though, perhaps it was not so remarkable. On this team there was Raikin, senior and in charge. He had served once, and cursed often, as a young tank commander in a Guards tank regiment in Northern Sachsen. All the teams-now that he thought on it, all the quality control teams- were composed of people who had served in tank or motorized rifle formations and suffered firsthand from poor quality. Would it make a difference? Raikin didn't know. He admitted to himself that it just might.
Raikin fitted dark goggles over his eyes and bent low over a welder, himself crouching as he joined the tank glacis to the sides of the hull. Raikin was pleased to see the welder taking extra time and care to ensure a solid joinder. He thought about hurrying the welder along, but rejected the notion. He did not want his pay docked over the matter. Let the welder take his time, just so that the tank passed final inspection.
"Josef?"
Raikin stood erect and turned towards the speaker, Stefan Malayev, he of the black patch and single eye. "Yes?"
"The castings people are trying to palm off some second rate road wheels on me. You can see they're crude just by looking. I won't stand for it. I have a wife and two children and no slovenly son of a bitch is going to take food from their mouths."
Raikin nodded solemnly. "Let's go chat with the bastards, then, shall we? And if they won't listen… well… we'll go see Khudenko. That, or kick the fuckers' asses."
Imperial Range, 8/4/460 AC
Jorge Mendoza stood in ranks, eyes shining at the sight before them. If we had had these…
Atop a spotlessly gleaming T-38 tank, Colonel Sitnikov stood proudly, his hands on his hips. In a semicircle around Sitnikov, all around Mendoza, stood the nearly one hundred long-service BDC and Civil Force officers, noncoms, and enlisted men, none over five feet, six inches
, plus another slightly larger group of new enlistees. These had been chosen to man the tanks and lighter armor of the Legio del Cid. Five Volgans stood between Sitnikov and the Balboans. Behind him, stretching for half a mile along either side of the access road that led to a number of the rifle and machine gun ranges at the complex, was a staggered double line of twenty-five more T-38s and PBMs. Twenty feet behind the Balboans stood Parilla and Carrera. Just behind them stood Siegel.
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 exi
st 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, Sitnikov 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.