Noah and the other three sat on top of the 103, watching, as the first tank was cleared to fire. The crack of the 75mm sabot round as it blew past the sound barrier almost hurt his ears, so sharp was it. Almost instantly, it seemed, there was a flash as the round punched through the sides of a hulk so damaged that Noah couldn’t tell what it had once been.
“Get some!” Brock said, fist-bumping Killer.
Noah was impressed. While the 90mm rounds to be fired today were the blue practice rounds, there was no such thing as a “practice” 75mm railgun round. It was an inert hunk of death shot at hypervelocity speeds. They didn’t have a warhead, relying on simple mass and inertia to destroy a target.
The gunner fired two more rounds before the next tank in the line was ready. This would be the MGS-HE, firing the 90mm round. Unlike the sharp crack of the railgun, the 90mm shook the firing stations with the concussion of the chemical propellant. Noah could feel it, as if someone was thumping his chest. Downrange, the impact was a little anti-climatic, but that was because the rounds were inert and not nearly as fast as the 75mm rounds. Whereas the railgun was a superb anti-armor weapon, and while it did have an HE round that could be used, the 90mm was a much better choice against fighting positions and soft targets. And just as the railgun had an HE round, the 90mm had a sabot for anti-armor.
It took over an hour for each of the students in all five tanks to get his or her three rounds, but eventually, the tanks were backed off the firing line, and the two MC tanks took their positions. With the kinetics, the range officers had been standing next to the tanks. Not so with the two MC tanks, and for the same reason that the offset was required. So much power was about to be released that any leakage could mess up a person’s day something fierce. For that reason, a range officer was inside each tank, making an already-cramped situation even more so.
Given Noah’s higher driving scores, he was the first one in the gunner’s seat. He hadn’t done as well as Killer and Skeets in gunnery drills in the simulator, but he wasn’t about to give up his first-to-fire status.
Noah imagined he could feel the angry powers of the electrons and positrons, jockeying for release as pi neutral mesons. He was sitting right next to an immense pool of energy, ready to send it downrange.
The meson cannon could stop an infantry attack in its tracks. It could destroy or put out of action almost any unshielded equipment, sweeping the terrain with the force of an angry Norse god. Yet, it had limitations. A meson beam had problems with simple rock and earth, so dug-in infantry were difficult targets, and armor such as the Brotherhood’s Romakh was hardened enough to deflect any land-based meson or plasma weapon. None of that was on Noah’s mind as he waited for the signal to fire. All he could think about was 2.5 KJ about to blow past his head.
“You may fire when ready,” the range officer said into his mic.
Noah was sighted in on a hulk 1034 meters downrange. His display had the cannon at 100%, ready to fire. His mind “itched,” if he could say that with the amount of energy that seemed to hover around him. Slowly depressing the double thumb paddles, he released the fires of hell.
He would swear later that he could see the bones in his hands on the paddles, even if he knew this was impossible. What he knew was possible was the tightly focused meson beam that reached out and enveloped his target—he just hadn’t realized how intense the beam would be.
“Grubbing hell!” was about the best he could manage as the afterimage still burned in his eyes as the charger whined as it strained to get the cannon ready for the next shot.
He’d only fired from a sitting tank on a controlled range, a range officer at his side, but still, Noah thought he understood at a gut level now what it meant to be a Marine tanker.
Chapter 6
“I want another apple,” Killer said, already two sheets into the wind.
“Me, too!” Miriam chorused, and just about as far gone as Killer was.
She punched the order into the console, and leaned back against the small Marine, her arm companionably around her shoulder.
“My man’s a sergeant now, so we can afford this!”
Noah glanced at the readout, grimaced, but forced a smile back on his face. The bill had already climbed to devour at least two months’ worth of his increase in pay. Wetting downs were a tradition and part of Marine life. He’d enjoyed himself often enough at the expense of other newly promoted Marines, so he couldn’t very well complain.
With a loud whoosh, which Noah was sure was mostly for show, two red apple-shaped containers came down the overhead track to land in their table’s center cradle. Killer and Miriam grabbed their ice-cold ciders, clinked apples, then sucked on the extended “stems.”
The apples were the latest craze, but to Noah, the cider contained in them was bland and over-manufactured. He lifted his own glass and took a sip.
Much better, he thought.
If he was going to drink cider, at least he was going drink a naturally-brewed cider from a local supplier. Miriam, God bless her, didn’t have much in the way of a refined palate, and she was more impressed with the slick packaging rather than the drink inside.
Most of the party had drifted away. This would be the last weekend before the final Armor War, an eight-day practical application exercise that was the last graded event of the school. For those who passed—and most everyone who was left should pass—they would be receiving their first set of orders within a day of Endex. Even at this stage of the game, no one had a firm idea of where he or she would be going. Noah had remained near the top of the class, buoyed by his Class Four Quals in driving all three platforms (where he ended up third in the class), but his Class Three gunnery and Class Two maintenance scores had been more to the middle. The Honor Grad was probably going to be Opania Bester, who was sitting across the table from him right now, and while it hurt his ooh-rah to have an FCDC trooper receive it, he had to admit she deserved the honor. And she’d turned out to be a “cope,” what some of the younger generation was now calling people or things that his slightly older generation and even older had called “copacetic.”
Noah wanted to cut Miriam off. He wanted her clear-headed, but she was enjoying getting out of the apartment and being able to socialize.
Two more of the Marines got up to leave, congratulating him on his new rank. “Sergeant Lysander” did sound good to him, he had to admit. As a sergeant, the Marine Corps deemed him mature enough to get married. It seemed stupid, in many ways, that yesterday, he wasn’t capable of being a Marine and a married man, but today, suddenly he was, but Noah had long ago simply accepted the many incongruities of being a Marine.
“Well, sister of another mother, it’s time I pull chocks,” Killer said, pulling Miriam in for a kiss on the cheek.
“No, Patty! One more, OK?” Miriam protested.
Killer looked over Miriam’s shoulder at Noah, who quickly shook his head.
Killer nodded at him, then said, “No, really. We’ve only got tomorrow to get our vehicles ready, and the Dead Eye’s got problems.”
The four crewmates were starting the Armor War in the Aardvarks, and unlike with Davises and Mambas, each training Aardvark had a name. “Dead Eye” was more often called “Dead Ass,” by the crew for her continually breaking down.
“We’ll get together after the war, OK? Noah may be a bad-ass sergeant now, but I’ve got him handled. He’ll do what I say,” she said as Noah rolled his eyes.
“Sergeant Bester, are you on your way back?” she asked the FCDC trooper.
“Sure. I guess I’m ready.”
She started to take out her PA as if to pay, and Noah had to reach out to stop her.
“My bill. Tradition.”
She didn’t bother to put up a fake protest, but nodded and said, “I’m glad we don’t have the same tradition in Feds. That would have bankrupted me when I made sergeant. Congratulations, though.”
“What about him?” Miriam said, draining her apple and looking at Brock, who was
slumped down, head back, and snoring.
“It’s an autocab for him. Here, help me get him out of here.”
Brock mumbled a few times, and only half-way moved his feet while they mostly dragged him to the entrance, then poured him into the cab, programming and paying for the trip back to the main gate.
“YATYAS!” Killer yelled out the window as the cab pulled away.
“YATYAS,” Noah yelled back.
It hadn’t been until after their Phase 2 rotations that Noah had learned what it meant. “Now, it had become almost a habit, much like “Ooh-rah.” Depending on whether shouted by a tanker or tracker, it meant “If You Ain’t a Tanker (or Tracker), You Ain’t Shit!”
Miriam intertwined her arms in his as they watched the cab until it turned the corner and was out of sight.
Miriam pulled Noah down and whispered into his ear, “I’ve never fucked a sergeant before.”
Noah pulled back in surprise. Miriam was a little earthier than he was, but she was rarely so coarse with her language. The word “fuck” may be the most commonly spoken word in the Marines, but this was different.
And it kind of turned him on, even more so when her hand strayed to his crotch.
Not now! he told himself.
He pulled her across the street and into the park, and for a moment, she seemed to think he wanted to have at it outside in some dark corner, and she started pulling him along, only to be surprised when he stopped and sat them both down on a park bench.
“What, you don’t want to fuck me?” she asked.
“No,” he started until he saw the expression on her face change. “I mean yes, of course, I do. I love f . . . fucking you,” he managed to get out. “But first, there’s something I want to say.”
She sat back, arms across her chest, the expression on her face not too inviting.
Oh, shit. Now I’ve got her mad at me. This isn’t going like I planned.
He’d had three drinks that night, and while not drunk, he knew it could be clouding his mind. A rational Noah would just go home and make love to her. A slightly tipsy Noah, though, wanted to get things straight. The last 30 some-odd weeks had been rough on them. He’d felt them drift apart a little, and he wasn’t 100% sure about where they were with each other. Even though Miriam had been around Marines on Wayfarer Station, being in a relationship with one, living with one, had to be an eye-opening experience. For a Marine, duty interfered with family life, no matter how hard the Marine tried not to let it get in the way. Noah knew that Miriam had been unhappy, and he’d feared he was losing her. He had to find out just where they were before he received his next orders.
He should have done this before going to his wetting down, but to be honest, he’d chickened out. He’d thought a drink might calm him, but that turned into three for him and four or five for her.
Doesn’t matter. Just go for it.
“So, what are you going to say that’s so damned important?” she asked.
“Look, honey,” he said, reaching out to take her hand.
At least she’s not pulling it back.
“I know, things have been rough for you during the school, and I’ve not always been there for you.”
She stared at him with an emotionless expression on her face, which made Noah more nervous.
“And, I don’t know where my next set of orders will be to yet. I can’t tell you if two days after I get there, I won’t be off deployed, leaving you there alone to get our home put together.”
Still nothing from her.
“But I want you to know, that I still feel the same way about you. I love you, and I want to be with you, and now that I’m a sergeant, well, the Marine Corps—”
“Are you proposing to me?” she asked, her brows furrowed together in confusion.
“What? Well, yes. I mean I’m trying to,” he said, pulling the ring box out of his pocket.
She tilted her head back in laughter—not the sweet giggle of someone excited, but the belly busting laughter of someone who’d just heard something hilarious. Noah had expected a happy hug or a sorrowful rejection, but not this.
“And is that the ring?” she asked, trying to stifle her laughter.
“Yes,” he admitted softly, opening up the box to reveal the ring that now looked way too small, way too insignificant to him.
She took the box from him, turning the ring to catch the glare from the streetlights.
“And, why are you asking me this?”
What? he wondered, at loss for words.
He gaped at her like a fish out of water before he was able to strangle out, “Because I love you.”
“And I love you, too, Noah,” she said, putting her hands around his necks and pulling him forward until they were forehead to forehead. “But why are you asking me this? We decided all of this on Wayfarer Station.”
“Not exactly, no, we didn’t.”
“Yes, my muddle-headed sergeant. You said you wanted to marry me. I said I would, and I said you were mine. Hell, why do you think I followed you to this shithole of a planet?”
Noah tried to think back to their conversation. He had said something to the effect that he would like to marry her, as in sometime, but he hadn’t thought it was actually decided. And with her moping around the apartment, he wasn’t sure things were still on track.
“I don’t think I actually—”
“Get on your knees? No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to.”
“But—”
Oh, goodness gracious, Sergeant Lysander. If you’re that traditional, then be a Marine and go for it,” she said, swinging him around and off the bench.
This wasn’t at all as he imagined it, and for a moment, he wanted to pull back and sort things out. But looking at her smiling face, he was smart enough to know what to do.
He pulled the box back out of her hand, knelt, presented the ring, and asked, “Miriam Seek Grace, will you marry me.”
“Yes, I will, Sergeant Noah Lysander.” She pulled him in for a kiss, then whispered into his ear, her tongue flicking his lobe, “Now that that is out of the way, I still haven’t fucked a sergeant. Are you going to help me get that box checked?”
“Oh, yes, I am, ma’am! Yes, I am!”
GAZIANTEP
Chapter 7
Noah’s eyes kept darting to his display, trying to keep track of each avatar on it. He felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop, except instead of fine dining ware, there were Marines out there. Tankers might joke about making “gruntcakes,” but the reality was stressing him out.
“You’re drifting left,” the TC shouted at him. “Keep your head in the game.”
They’d had very minimal maneuver training with ground troops on the Itch, and mostly with other students playing the infantry role. Even during the Armor War, most of the engagements has been simple armor force on force, with an active duty mechanized task force playing the OPFOR. The standard deployment method for armor was just this, though, protected by the infantry while supplying them with the support needed to take out heavier enemy targets.
Somewhere up ahead of them were between ten and fifteen Teresas, a platoon of older Tonyas, and a rash of anti-armor weapons. The images ahead, deployed along the southern approach to New Antalya, kept shifting as the Ataturk jamming and spoofing programs were broken by the Federation Navy’s surveillance AI’s, only to have more spoofing appear. Somewhere in the back-and-forth was a real picture of their disposition, but that was at the back of his mind at the moment. He was happy to have the grunts with them, but they made driving the Anvil more difficult and much more stressful.
As a PICS Marine, Noah had maneuvered in combined arms exercises with the smaller Mambas, and if one of the assault tanks had collided with him while he was mounted in his combat suit, his combat suit might have been damaged, but he, the Marine would have survived. These straight-leg grunts seemed to be running around like crazy with little regard to where he was. The Law of Gross Tonnage was such that even if it wa
s Noah who made the mistake, the Marine infantryman would still be the squashed gruntcake.
The platoon had remained in place at Glen’s Landing until relieved by a company of Cennet militia and the gunny had switched-out the damaged track on the Ba-Boom. Back up to full strength, they’d made a quick, nerve-wracking run up the Demir Highway to its intersection with Highway 4 coming in from the west, holding it until the link-up with the rest of the task force. Now, in the broad valley leading up to New Antalya, the platoon was the right-hand forward element of the mechanized infantry wedge approaching the city. The grunts had been mostly on foot for the last 15 klicks, leaving their Aardvarks as the threat became greater.
Noah muted the infantry avatars for a moment. One of the task force’s two Aardvark platoons was advancing in the middle, right between First and Third Platoon. They were no match for the Teresas up ahead, but their 25mm chain guns could wreak havoc among any Ataturk ground troops as well and knock enemy drones out of the sky with ease. The Ataturks employed the WWK-40 drone, which could lift and fire a single Lancet anti-armor missile, so Noah appreciated their armored personnel carriers’ presence.
He’d had fun back at Armor School driving the Aardvark, but he’d never felt really protected in one. While fairly well shielded from most energy weapons, a simple rifle grenade had the ability to take one out if it hit the right spot. Noah was glad they were there with them, but he was gladder than he wasn’t driving them.
Almost on cue, one of the Aardvarks, some 800 meters to his left, opened up with the chain gun, buzzing like an angry insect. On his display, a red avatar for a drone appeared, only to disappear as the drone itself was knocked down 1400 meters to their front. Noah tried to see if it was the WWk-40, but the Federation AIs weren’t passing that to the command net.
Noah switched his display back, and all the ground-pounders’ avatars reappeared on the screen. A squad was arrayed 25 meters in front of the Anvil, which was too close for his comfort level. If he had to maneuver, they weren’t giving him much room. Even some of his active armor, if deployed at their full range, could pose a threat to them. His AI would take that into consideration, and it wouldn’t deploy measures to counteract incoming while the grunts were within the ECR[26] of any detonations.
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