Noah's Story: Marine Tanker (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 3)

by Jonathan Brazee

  Noah kept to the middle of the street as he slowly drove the Anvil forward. It left him in the open, but it made it more difficult for anyone on top of one of the buildings to easily engage them while simultaneously making it easier for the TC to engage an enemy soldier with the .50 cal.

  If there even were soldiers there. The place was a ghost town. There was no sign of anyone, military or civilian. The scanners onboard the Jerry-John had shown nothing in the town, but still, it seemed almost too quiet to Noah as he approached the first intersection. But if the Ataturks hadn’t deemed the crossroads strategic enough to hold, then that was fine with Noah.

  Noah was creeping the Anvil along at 10 KPH. At this speed, the big tank was surprisingly silent. There wasn’t any of the creaking and groaning of the first 200 years of tanks, and with the fusion generator, the propulsion was silent. The city might be deserted, but the Anvil and the Ball Shot were 40-ton ghosts making their way through the town. Two blocks away, his display showed Noah that the Kiss of Death was paralleling them 300 meters to the south, but equally as silent.

  “Stop!” Chili shouted as they crossed the second intersection. “I think I’ve got something.”

  Noah immediately applied the brakes, the Anvil scraping on the road as it slid to a halt, the first real sound it had made. He checked the Hasher once again, and the green activation lights were a steady reassurance.

  “Tank!” the sergeant shouted as the wall of a building 40 meters ahead seem to dissolve as a 90 mm gun started swinging around to them, the gun disrupting the projection field that had hidden it.

  “Engage,” the lieutenant ordered.

  There was a sharp crack as the electromagnetic field accelerated the 12 kg sabot round to almost 5,000 KPH. Almost instantaneously, the Teresa exploded in a blinding flash of light, the turret, with the gun still attached, visible until it flew out of sight.

  The familiar smell of ionized air swept into the crew compartment through the TC’s open hatch.

  “Holy shit!” the sergeant said, his voice filled with awe.

  All three of them had fired the railgun back at Camp Ceasare, and Chili had fired the Anvil’s main guns during pre-deployment quals, but firing at an enemy tank and destroying it took things to another level. Noah was in awe of the amazing power of the railgun. Just five minutes before, he’d wished they had the 90mm smoothbore on the tank, but his concern had evidently been misplaced.

  His display rang for attention, and Noah tore his eyes away from the flaming hulk that had been a 60-ton tank only moments before.

  “We’ve got more tanks,” the lieutenant passed as two energy blooms blossomed onto his display and started to scatter.

  The Ataturk tanks had been lying quiet, and from where the destroyed tank’s gun had been pointing, they had evidently been oriented towards New Antalya. Noah shuddered to think what would have happened had they moved with the rest of the task force to the intersection at Route 5 and the Demir Highway, then come down south to hold this objective. As the lead Davis in this two-tank section, they would have eaten a 90mm shell at point-blank range. The Anvil would be the smoking hulk instead of the Teresa.

  “Two and Three, take the left tank,” Lieutenant Moore ordered.

  “Two, you take the left,” Staff Sergeant Cremineli ordered, pulling up an overhead map and swiping his finger on his display, drawing a red arrow onto the road he wanted Staff Sergeant Kyle Mauser-Lopez, the Ball Shot’s TC, to take. The tank was still 50 meters behind them, and with a quick pivot, headed down the road.

  “Lysander, go, go! What are you waiting for?”

  “Which way?”

  “Down the road,” he shouted, bending over back into the compartment, using his hand to point.

  That’s all Noah needed, and the Anvil responded to his commands, almost leaping ahead, a lion chasing a wildebeest. Except a wildebeest didn’t fight back. The Teresa had teeth.

  “Noah, I want a right front quarter aspect, if you can,” Chili passed. “Don’t let them get behind us.”

  Noah turned left, smashed a road sign, and accelerated the Anvil down the road. A small voice of caution surfaced, reminding himself that if he’d been the Ataturk armor, he’d have mined their rear. There were hundreds of military mines available that could disable, if not destroy a Davis. But his TC said go, so he tried to push that concern away.

  The Anvil had far more power and massed much less than the Ataturk Teresa, and he quickly closed the gap and edged ahead while running parallel only a block over. The excitement of the chase rose within him. Just two more blocks, and he thought he could take the next cross street and cut the Teresa off—until the Ataturk crew turned their tank to the right and away from them.

  “Shit! Get on his ass!” Staff Sergeant Cremineli shouted.

  Noah spun the Anvil around on its axis in a neutral steer, tracks going in opposite directions, then dashed forward, hoping to reach the street the Teresa was on in time to give Chili a shot up the tank’s ass-end. Just as he reached the road, however, almost sliding the Anvil around the corner, the Teresa turned left, taking it out of Chili’s line-of-fire.

  Just as Noah could see the Teresa on his display, he knew the Ataturk crew could see the Marine tanks. They were trying to counteract his attempts to get into position to fire while maneuvering their tank to fire on the Anvil and Ball Shot.

  “I’m switching to AI routing,” the TC passed.

  Immediately, the AI highlighted the routes it calculated for both Marine tanks as they tried to corner the Teresa. Noah would rather be choosing his own route, but he followed where the AI directed him—which changed each time as soon as the Teresa changed its direction.

  “It’s trying to hook up with the other one,” Staff Sergeant Mauser-Lopez passed.

  Noah realized that the Ball Shot’s TC was right. The Teresa was darting around like a bird in a cage, but it was slowly making its way towards the south side of the town where the lieutenant and the other Teresa were maneuvering against each other.

  They’d never learned anything like this at armor school. The battles there had been in wide open spaces, covering long distances. Maneuver had been on a larger scale, not individual tanks darting up and down small roads and alleys in a city.

  Six or seven years ago, there had been the historical Hollybolly flick, David Bowie Takes on Wall Street. Set in the 20th Century, Old Reckoning, the hero Bowie had challenged one of the Wall Street princes to an ancient game called Pacman. The game had made a very brief reappearance as part of the marketing for the flick, and as a big-time gamer, Noah had played the modern release a few times. Used to modern games, Noah had been bored with the slow and one-dimensional play, but what was happening now reminded him of that game. In this case, the three Marine tanks in the fight were doing the chasing, but his display looked like that of the ancient game, with figures chasing each other through the maze of roads and alleys.

  “Lieutenant, he’s going to be on your ass!” the gunny passed from where he was monitoring the action.

  Noah took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at the Kiss of Death’s avatar, and the gunny was right. Her target had doubled back, and in a moment, it would emerge behind her with a free shot up her ass end. Sergeant Juniper was rotating the main gun, but there was no way she could get it around in time to engage.

  Noah held his breath, staring at the screen, as the Teresa emerged and pivoted to take the shot just as the Kiss of Death darted down a side alley. The display registered the shot, but the Marine tank kept moving, untouched.

  Pay attention to your own fight, Noah scolded himself as he let out the breath he’d been holding.

  The flash and explosion took him by surprise, the clang against the top of the Anvil reverberating throughout the crew compartment. Immediately, another Teresa had appeared on his display, but he could see it with his naked eyes, just a couple of meters away off his left side where it had been hiding in ambush inside a shop of some sort. The muzzle of the 90mm gu
n looked huge, so close he thought he could reach out and touch it.

  A Teresa was larger than a Davis in both weight and height. The Ataturk tank’s 90mm was depressed as far as it could go, and the Anvil was beneath the line-of-fire. The Teresa’s round had skipped off of the turret instead penetrating. If the eager gunner had just waited ten seconds, the Anvil would have been far enough away for the Teresa’s main gun to be depressed enough to score a direct hit.

  More on instinct than anything else, Noah swerved the Anvil into the Teresa, slamming into it with a jolt that knocked Staff Sergeant Cremineli completely out of the tank. He fed the power, keeping contact, and started pushing the Teresa back into the building, walls being smashed as the two tanks struggled against each other.

  The Teresa’s 90mm gun extended over Noah’s hatch. If he opened the hatch, he could reach out and touch the barrel. As Chili brought his longer 75mm railgun around, it ran up against the Ataturk gun, locking together with it.

  Noah’s initial burst of power pushed the Teresa back, but as its own tracks began to gain purchase, it started to force the Anvil back, more walls collapsing as the two tanks banged into them. The Davis had a much more powerful motor, but the Teresa was 60 tons to the Davis’ 40. The Anvil’s tracks started to slip on the hard floor of the building, so Noah adjusted the tread elevation, raising them—and immediately started getting pushed back even quicker. He reversed the elevation, making them almost flat, and that was better, but the Teresa was slowly gaining an advantage. The Anvil might have more power, but the Teresa’s low-tech polyuthe treads were giving more traction on the building’s slick flooring.

  “I can’t fire!” Chili shouted out, his gun stuck fast, aiming over the front of the Teresa. “Get us out of here so I can take a shot!”

  But Noah couldn’t just back up, even had the two tanks not been locked together. With the angle of the two guns, as soon as he disengaged, the Teresa would be in position to fire first. He looked out his front port block to try and visualize exactly how the guns were situated, and he caught sight of the Ataturk tank commander, looking down at him through the blocks in his commander’s hatch. To his surprise, the commander smiled and nodded at him.

  Noah didn’t nod back. The Ataturk tank commander was not part of the fight. This was now between both drivers and both gunners.

  “Ball Shot, cut off that Teresa!” the gunny passed over the platoon net.

  Noah risked a glance at his screen. The Teresa he’d been chasing had turned around and was heading back. The Anvil was slowly being pushed back out into the street as the two tanks struggled like bull moose during the rut, their antlers locked together. As soon as that first Teresa reached their street, it would have an easy shot up the Anvil’s ass end. Noah figured they had 30 seconds until then, and he didn’t think the Ball Shot could get there in time.

  Noah could feel it as the Anvil’s tracks began to gain better purchase. The two tanks were probably beginning to tear up the road and the building’s shallow courtyard, which would give his higher-tech tracks more of an advantage and maybe give him the chance to do something with his tank’s greater power output. But he had to steer clear of the Teresa’s gun, which was still positioned right over the Anvil.

  “Do something, Noah!” the sergeant shouted.

  He just couldn’t quite visualize how the two tanks were locked together.

  Screw it, he thought with resignation as he popped his hatch.

  It opened half-way before hitting the Teresa’s gun, but he twisted far enough around to see how the Anvil’s 75mm had traversed up and in front of the enemy gun, lodging between the turret and the front of the tank. If both tanks stopped and slowly backed away, they could come clear of each other—not that either one of was going to stop and suggest that. Noah was pretty sure he could back up on his own, but that would leave the Teresa aiming down at the Anvil and Chili still aiming forward off target.

  And then it hit him.

  “Traverse back!” he shouted over his headset.

  “I can’t! The fucking turret!”

  “Just grubbing do it! Now!”

  A split second later, amid the roar of the battle, he heard the whine of the turret servos as they strained to bring the 75mm around. At that instant, Noah reversed his port tracks and slammed the starboard into forward. For a moment, Noah feared that his tracks would just spin, doing nothing, but enough of the road had broken up that the tank started to rotate, ass end first, counterclockwise. The driver of the Ataturk tank didn’t realize what was happening, and probably thinking he had an opening, pushed forward, which was exactly what Noah had hoped he would do. He caught a glimpse of the tank commander, eyes wide as he started shouting inside his tank. He could see what Noah had intended, but it was too late. With the Teresa pushing forward and the Anvil rotating, the two tanks slid apart, the Teresa’s main gun pointing more than 90 degrees away from the Anvil, the Anvil’s much longer 75mm railgun pointing almost on the Ataturk tank.

  “Fire, fire!” Noah shouted as both guns started to traverse, but the Anvil’s 75mm didn’t have as far to swing.

  Noah reached back just as Chili brought his gun to bear. He didn’t quite get the hatch closed when the sergeant fired and the Teresa erupted into a blinding flash of fire, the force of the explosion slamming Noah’s hatch down with enough power to smash his left hand and push the Anvil several meters back.

  Noah didn’t wait. The first Teresa was just reaching the intersection, and Chili Fulford was out of position to engage it.

  “Tank, eight o’clock!”

  He slewed the Anvil around, using his tracks to rotate, seeing the enemy tank as it emerged from the side street, its 90mm swinging over to engage them. His display showed him both his tank’s main aspect as well as that of the main gun. He forced himself to look down from his port to the screen, using his tracks to orient the main gun. He couldn’t go too far, or he’d take the gun off the target, but he couldn’t wait for Chili to traverse, either. It would take too long, and the Teresa would get off the shot first. The two Marines had to work together.

  He stopped just short of what he thought the alignment should be, letting the gunner aim in the gun. Only then, did he look up and out the blocks at the Teresa, 70 meters away, and its big 90mm seemingly pointing right at them.

  Fire, Fire!

  And Sergeant Fulford, UFMC, did.

  The hypervelocity round, traveling 5000 meters per second, crossed the 70 meters and slammed into the heavy frontal armor of the Teresa, penetrating the crew compartment with enough kinetic energy to blow the turret off and send it 100 meters into the air to crash down on the roof of some building in the distance. Pieces of the tank shot in all directions, several chunks hitting the Anvil with resounding clangs.

  Noah leaned back in his tight hole, his head hitting the hatch mount as he slowed his breathing. His heart was pounding at a million beats a minute, and he wasn’t sure he could breathe.

  “Mother fuck,” Chili said, his voice quiet with awe.

  “What now?” Noah asked him, looking down at his screen.

  Three enemy tanks were burning hulks, and the avatars for two more could now be seen. As he watched, the Ball Shot fired through a building, it looked like, the sabot round passing completely through to hit the tank on the other side.

  “Target down,” Staff Sergeant Mauser-Lopez passed.

  “Two and Three, help me with this asshole,” the lieutenant passed, still playing cat-and-mouse with what was now the sole remaining Teresa.

  Noah started to reach for his controls, and he screamed out in pain. His hand was on fire. He held it up, and it looked pretty bad.

  “You OK, Noah?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m OK.”

  There was a clatter on the outside of the tank, and Noah reached for his Ruger as a body dropped in through the commander’s hatch. Noah fumbled to bring his handgun up when Staff Sergeant Cremineli’s familiar voice asked for an update as if nothing had happened. When the TC h
ad fallen out of the tank, Noah had figured he’d been crushed in the struggle or blown up when the Teresa had exploded, but here he was, looking none the worse for wear.

  “We’re on our way to back up the Kiss of Death,” Chili told him.

  “Then let’s go, Lysander.”

  Noah reached out with both hands on his yokes, but his left hand wasn’t working. He’d somehow managed to use it to get the Anvil around for the third kill, the one coming around the corner, but now, it was useless. The Anvil lurched forward, smashing into the side of a building, sending a shower of debris down on the TC.

  “What the hell, Lysander? You drunk or something? Drive it right!”

  “I . . . I don’t think I can. I’m down one hand.”

  The TC bent over in the hatch and looked at Noah, who held up his now throbbing hand.

  The staff sergeant shrugged, then said, “Switch with me” as he started to slide, feet first, into Noah’s hole.

  There wasn’t any room for Noah to slide past him in the constrained crew compartment, so he had to open the hatch with his right hand, then crawl out, feeling very vulnerable as he scrambled to the commander’s cupula, dripping bright red blood onto the dusty skin of the Anvil. He almost fell through the hatch, then pulled it closed after him.

  The staff sergeant was now the driver, with the hatch open, of course, and his head sticking out, he put the Anvil into motion, ready to join the last fight. They didn’t make it. Before they’d driven 200 meters, the Kiss of Death and the Ball Shot had cornered the remaining tank, forcing it to surrender.

  One short Marine tank platoon had defeated a five-tank Ataturk platoon, destroying three Teresas, disabling one, and forcing the surrender of the fifth. For a bunch of previously untested tankers, that wasn’t too shabby.