“That won’t do any good, the squadron commander and Zane are tight. If recon will take me I imagine the commander would be happy to see me go and I’ll be clear of them.”
“Maybe, but a brain tank, Brad? C’mon. They’re looking for volunteers for a reason, and that reason is that the human crew on those recon deathtraps don’t last long.”
“Maybe so, but I’m applying.”
“You might as well go in the latrine and hang yourself.”
Brad looked at his companion and smiled. “Thanks for the support.”
-(o)-
“Okay, Felix, your brain box is locked in and synched up with the hull systems. Turn’er over and see what’cha think.”
A high-pitched squeal sounded in the Maintenance Troop field motor pool that quickly changed to a lower-pitched and muffled roar as the twin turbine engines in the tank came to life.
The engines wound up and spooled down a few times as the throttles were opened and closed.
“It’s good, Bobby. Numbers are good. Much damage to the turbines?” said a deep and artificial voice over the mechanic’s headphones.
“Nothin’ I couldn’t fix. Turret mount was the toughest thing. The welders said you’d need a new hull, but I told’em you’d never stand for it. New turret set is dropping in tomorrow. A coupla days for installation and calibration, then you’ll be ready for your new crew.”
“Any word on who we’re getting?” the tank said.
“Yeah… but you ain’t gonna like it.”
“Shit. Lay it on me.”
“They’re pullin’ crew from battle tanks. Loaders and gunners they say.”
“Nothing wrong with regular armor crew if you give them proper transition training. What about training, where they going to find time for that?”
“Yeah… you’re gonna hate that part.”
“What?” the tank said irritably. “You better not be fucking with me.”
“OJT, Felix.”
“Not a fucking chance.”
“That’s what they said. OJT. On the job training.”
“I know what OJT means, asshole.”
“Hey, hey. Don’t crush the messenger, big guy. I’m just giving you the lowdown.”
“I don’t like it, Bobby. Not one bit.”
“I know. They won’t let you go out without human crew, Felix. Two crew requirement.”
“I don’t like it.”
For a brief moment, Bobby thought he saw the tank scowl.
-(o)-
“Roberts, Corporal Bradley Roberts, you’re up,” the orderly said pointing at a nearby door.
CPL Roberts wound his way through the crowded waiting area and entered the room.
A tired looking sergeant sat behind a desk and pointed at a chair just inside the door of the tiny office.
“Roberts, Bradley F.?” the sergeant asked, looking at a list of names printed on a paper form that lay on his desk.
“Roger that, sergeant.”
The sergeant opened a file on his computer. “Gunner, right?” he asked without looking away from the screen as Brad sat down.
“That’s correct, Sarge, been—”
“You volunteering, not being kicked out of your unit, right?” the sergeant asked glancing at Brad.
“That’s right. I have some issues with my—”
“Not a problem child, no disciplinary record?
“No, My troop—”
“You’re accepted. Wait in the room out there and they’ll have your paperwork ready for you to sign at the desk in a little while. A truck will run you over to the recon squadron this afternoon.”
“What about training?”
“Over at the recon unit,” the sergeant said pointing at the door.
“OJT?” Brad asked as he stepped around the chair so he could open the door.
“Far as you know.”
Brad sighed and stepped from the office, closing the door behind him. What the hell are you getting yourself into, he thought.
-(o)-
The next morning Brad and his fellow replacements were in a makeshift classroom at the recon squadron’s laager, receiving a crash course on the LF17A3 Armed Reconnaissance Tank, commonly called an ART. Thirty soldiers sat in the room, with twenty-two ART positions open.
“Don’t worry, the eight of you who don’t get tabbed for a ride won’t have long to wait,” they were told.
Just outside the classroom sat an empty and brainless ART, cold and silent.
“As you better already know, the LF17A3 is a recon vehicle. It is also a fighting machine. That’s why we are short on ARTs and shorter on human crew,” the Squad Sergeant conducting the class said. His nametag read LARSON. “ARTs have been in the thick of it since day one.
“The ART weighs forty-two tons, has two turbine engines, tandem tracks on each side, two cannon, one heavy machine gun, and one grenade launcher. An ART can attain a top speed of one hundred and thirty kilometers an hour, has a range with internal tanks of five hundred kilometers,” the sergeant said as he paced back and forth in front of the class.
“The ART is just over two meters high at the top of the main turret, two point five meters at the top of the crew turret. The main turret houses one 50mm auto-cannon on the right side, and one 25mm auto-cannon on the left side. The crew turret has one 13mm heavy machine gun right, one 30mm grenade launcher left.
“You will learn to operate the weapons in the crew turret with proficiency. You must be capable of operating the commo-navigation system. It is the same system as the battle tanks use, so you should be good to go. You must be able to reload and repair the main turret armaments while on mission. They are mechanical devices, therefore they will malfunction, therefore you will fix them, or else you and your teammate will be in big trouble. Later in this course you will be shown how to do this.
“It’s prime operator is a human brain mounted within a cerebral interface module, or as everyone calls them, a brain box. Before you ask, yes, the brain is still human, a person. You will treat your teammate as you would anyone else. Just remember, you piss off your teammate, he or she weighs forty-two tons and can outrun you. You will not win a fistfight with an LF17A3,” the sergeant said with a smile.
“We got two days to get you up to speed. After that you’ll have a day or two to work with your new teammate, then it is likely we’ll be pulling missions again. It would behoove you to pay attention.”
-(o)-
“How’s that, Felix?” Bobby asked as he spun the newly installed turret in a clockwise direction.
“Better, but there’s a catch or something. Near the right rear track.”
“Lock the turret at ninety degrees and I’ll climb in the engine bay and have a look.”
Bobby, a maintenance sergeant, climbed out of the open hatch on the crew turret, walked across the main turret, and nimbly dropped into the open engine bay. He jammed his head in between the edge of the opening and the front of the right side turbine housing.
“Don’t move the turret unless you want my decapitated head bouncing around in your engine bay.”
He felt around the large flange where the turret mounted to the hull.
“Any word on your new crew, Felix?”
“Nothing. They said they would pair us up based on compatibility.”
Bobby laughed. “You believe that?” he said grunting as he reached farther into the hull.
“I hope they try, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they just drew names out of a hat.”
“I got it. There’s a rough patch inside the roller track. It’ll smooth itself out, but I can work on it if you want me to.”
“It will be all right. I just didn’t want something to get locked up.”
“You think the battle tank crew will work out?”
“They either will or they won’t. I am trying to stay optimistic.”
Bobby laughed as he began extricating himself from the engine bay.
“Optimistic? Felix, you’re a lot of t
hings, but optimistic ain’t one of them.”
Felix grumbled over the headset. “You said something about decapitation?”
-(o)-
Brad sat in the crew turret of the demonstration tank outside the classroom.
“You got a handle on it, Roberts?” asked the instructor’s voice over Brad’s headset.
“Roger that, sergeant. It’s pretty much the same as the battle tank’s controls. The weps are different, of course.”
“That’s right.”
“When do we go test fire?”
“Once you get paired with an ART.”
“What about the main turret armaments?”
“What about them?”
“Do we get a familiarization session for that?”
“Negative. Your ART controls the main turret.”
“What about field refueling, observation gear, dismounted patrol, brain box—”
“You’re the guy who always has his nose in the manual, right?” the sergeant said.
“I’m not the only one, but yeah. I need to know the job if you expect me to perform well at it.”
“That’s the right attitude, but we don’t have the time right now. Take it up with your ART. This is a crash course. Survive the next couple of weeks and we’ll go over the manual left, right, up, and down. Got me?”
“Roger that.”
-(o)-
The engine covers slammed down, and Bobby climbed onto the hull.
“That’s as much as I can do, Felix.”
“It will do, Bobby.”
“You’ll need a refit next time,” the sergeant said, throwing a latch lever over into the locked position.
“Okay.”
“That’ll mean a new hull,” he said moving to the next latch.
“I know.”
“It ain’t that big a deal, Felix.”
“It is to me.”
“Look, ol’ buddy, I ain’t gonna pretend to understand what happened with your episode, but you’ve never had a recurrence. That means something, right?”
“Maybe. They don’t know. They can wire a brain to interface with all kinds of shit, but the people at the head shed don’t have all the answers. It’s something I have to deal with on my own.”
-(o)-
The twenty-seven volunteers remaining after the crash course gathered in the makeshift classroom for crew assignments. Three of their fellows were gone, washed out of the program and returned to their units.
SSG Larson brought in a pair of helmets and dropped them topside down on a table at the head of the classroom. The noise drew everyone’s attention.
“We have a very scientific system for pairing you up with your teammate,” Larson said. “We have two helmets. In one helmet are pieces of paper with the names of each of you. In the other helmet, pieces of paper with tanks that need crew. I draw one piece from each helmet and that makes a pairing. Scientific, efficient, fair, and easy.”
Some hands went up among the students.
“If you’re asking about the selection system, put your hands down.”
All of the hands came down.
“If you thought there would be some psych evaluation to pair you up with your soul mate so you could roll off into the bright future together, well, I guess you’ll be disappointed. Time is of the essence, and there’s a war on you know. When your name is called, head for the motor pool and look for the tank that has the number you get assigned, got it?”
Seeing no hands, Larson continued.
He reached into both of the helmets simultaneously and drew slips of paper. He opened them, looked at them, and said, “Anderson, William, JMax-Seven-Three, C Troop.
As Anderson rose from his seat and left, Larson repeated the process.
“Wilson, Peter, PBon-One-Zero-Two, B Troop.”
Wilson followed Anderson out of the classroom.
“Roberts, Bradley, Two-Two, C Troop.
Brad wondered about the difference in the tank identification compared to the previous crew. He stood and opened his mouth to speak.
SSG Larson cut him off. “Two-Two, Roberts. That’s enough. You’ll understand when you get there, and good luck.”
Brad left the classroom a little perplexed, and made his way to the motor pool.
“Where you headed?” asked a grey-haired sergeant as Brad passed the first field motor pool building.
“I’m looking for ART number twenty-two, C Troop,” he replied.
The sergeant chuckled. “That’s Felix. That way,” he said pointing down a row of repair bays. “At the end. Sergeant West will explain.”
Brad thanked the man and walked down the row of buildings wondering what was different about his tank assignment. As he walked past each bay, he saw ARTs in each of them, differing only in subtle differences in camouflage pattern and identity numbers.
When he got to the end, he saw an ART no different from the others, a small 22 painted on the rear of the vehicle.
A man wearing coveralls with the top half rolled down and the sleeves tied around his waist was washing his arms in a portable basin.
“I’m Roberts. I was assigned here,” Brad said as he stepped inside.
“I’m Sergeant West, mechanic and all around nice guy,” the man said, looking up with a smile. “Call me Bobby.”
“I’m Brad.”
“So, how’d you draw Felix?” Bobby asked as he shook water from himself.
“They drew our names and tank assignments from helmets.”
Bobby began laughing, as did Felix, a deep, almost evil sound that emanated from external speakers on the side of the hull.
Brad took a couple of steps back.
When Bobby stopped laughing, he told Brad of Felix’s comment about crew selection.
“I see,” Brad said. “I’ve never met a cerebral vehicle operator before. You’re Felix?” he said to the tank.
“That’s right. And you are Brad, the untrained and unqualified person I’ll have to coddle until we get proper crew assigned here,” Felix replied in a mean tone.
Brad raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
He looked at Bobby. “The sergeant at the entrance to the motor pool said you could explain why this tank is identified differently.”
Bobby laughed. “Yeah. He usually—”
“I’m going to run some diagnostics,” Felix said.
Bobby smiled. “Roger that, Felix.” The mechanic looked at Brad, gesturing at Felix. “ He’s off the commo net now. He usually gets called Felix. You know how they come up with the ID number for ARTs?”
Brad shook his head.
“Usually they take the first letter of the first name and first three letters of the last name and put those in front of a number, with the number being the order in which they became a brain tank. You’d be BRob-number whatever. Get me?”
“Yeah, so what’s the deal about the identity?”
Bobby walked to the hull and pointed at the ID plate on the side. It read LF17A3 - C Trp - FUkr-22.
Bobby smiled. “Yeah, some are a little squeamish about calling him, ‘Fucker Two-Two’. Felix Ukraine, that’s his name. Felix was the twenty-second guy to go through the process, and he’s the oldest still serving.”
“Wouldn’t that be ‘Few-ker Two-Two’?”
Bobby laughed. “You’d think that, but wait till you get to know him a little better.”
-(o)-
“No, no, no!” Felix growled over the headset. “I’ve told you at least a dozen times, your fucking turret better be pointed somewhere mine isn’t. You are going to get your shit scattered, and me right along with you, slick. Stop fucking up.”
Brad’s jaw clenched. For two days, Felix had been on him. Felix’s method of instruction was to wait until Brad made a mistake, then go into a tirade about Brad’s incompetence. It mattered little to Felix that most of Brad’s mistakes were errors caused by ignorance rather than incompetence and he had yet to make the same mistake twice. The crash course covered only so muc
h.
“Word is you were a fuckup at your old unit. That explains a few things. I’m taking us around again,” Felix rumbled.
He threw the tank into a sharp turn that slammed Brad sideways in his combat seat harness before he could reply. The corporal was becoming sore from the amount of time spent in the crew turret and Felix’s insistence on maneuvering as violently as he could. “Testing the repairs made to my systems,” Felix would say. Brad imagined Felix would have an evil grin on his face when he said it, if he had a face.
I’d punch him in that face, too, he thought. If he had one.
Brad learned from other members of the unit that Felix had a reputation for being difficult. Brad discovered that characterization was woefully inaccurate. Felix was in fact, insufferable. It didn’t help matters that Felix was also known as the best recon tank in the business and had gone through human teammates at an alarming rate over the years. Many had quit, requesting another teammate, several had been maimed or killed in combat though. Felix’s philosophy was simple: Mission First, and was a philosophy Brad happened to agree with.
Felix flew down the road leading to the starting point of the combat course. He ignored the speed limit signs as if they weren’t there.
Reaching the entrance point, Brad braced himself for Felix’s maneuvers, which came soon after. Felix locked the tracks, slamming Brad forward into the straps holding him secure in the turret. A one-hundred and sixty degree turn threw the corporal to the side, then rearwards as the tank rotated, then he was slammed to the rear again as Felix opened the throttles and tore down the road to the beginning point for the course.
Brad grimaced in pain and anger. He was reaching his breaking point.
The radio hissed as a range control officer came on the net.
“Fu… uh, Two-Two, stand by at the starting point.”
Despite Brad’s anger with Felix, he still found people’s reticence to use the tank’s identity to be hilarious. He chuckled.
“What’s so fucking funny, meat?” Felix said.
“Two-Two, course reset. You have the last run for today. Go when ready,” the range officer said.
“We have a course to run,” Brad said.
“That we do, son. Do it right for once,” Felix said as he opened the throttles.
Conflict: The Pythan War, Invasion Page 34