The Free World War

by Matthew William Frend

  Deming realized from the scale of the fighting that Task Force Barkley had joined up with Combat Command A and the right flank of the Division. He scanned ahead up to the horizon, but there was no way to tell where Task Force Barkley had gone amid the chaos.

  He changed frequencies and the battle net crackled with urgent voices. … tank sighted! … engaging machine gun post … infantry anti-tank at two o’clock … one hundred yards – fire!

  He switched back to battalion, “Coach, this is Quarterback … over.”

  “Quarterback this is Coach, receiving you loud and clear … over.”

  His radio operator handed him a piece of paper, “Coach … message follows …” and he proceeded to read the groups of letters which formed the encoded message.

  “Oboe Fox Dog Victor Easy … Able Charlie Easy Jig Zebra …. Mike Sugar William Uncle Victor …”

  Each five-letter group represented one letter, so reading the entire contents took over two minutes. When decoded by the receiving operator it explained that the platoon was in position and waiting for the go-ahead to join the battle.

  Deming raised his field glasses and saw a line of tanks on fire in the distance. He exhaled with relief as he recognized their outlines as that of a group of T-34s. Their scorched turrets were turned side on with gun-barrels sagging, pointing impotently in the direction from which their attackers had killed them.

  Minutes passed as they waited for Battalion to respond to their request. The crew of the Hellcat stirred restlessly at their posts, with keen eyes switching from one likely course of approaching danger to another. The driver, Shelby, spat down onto the ground as though he were trying to get the taste of the air out his mouth.

  “We gonna wait here all day while everyone else is kicking Ivan’s butt?” he asked impatiently.

  “We’re waiting for Corday to put us in the game … just sit tight and enjoy the scenery,” Deming replied laconically.

  The commander’s field glasses roamed hundreds of yards beyond the immediate area covered by the crew. With a dulled and cold dispassion, his view ranged past individual scenes of destruction. Hours or minutes before, men had fought, killed and died, but now there were only the tragic remains of their heroism and sacrifice.

  Finally, battalion called back and advised them on Task Force Barkley’s position. Deming clicked his mike in readiness to give to the order to move out, when a movement in his peripheral vision brought his senses to full alert. A dark green shape came sharply into focus, unfamiliar at first, but then Deming’s mind made the association between pictures he’d seen at a briefing, and the real thing now approaching from a mile away – an IS3.

  The latest model of Iosif Stalin, or IS tank, looked sleeker and more menacing that any of its predecessors. Deming’s heart rate climbed as he realized the implications – it was trying to sneak along the right flank of Combat Command A. Its powerful 122mm gun could do a lot of damage if it got into CCA’s rear.

  His mind made an instant adjustment, “Target! Fifteen hundred … three o’clock!”

  Deming assessed the situation. The IS3’s gun would have a longer range than their own 90mm. They were just going to have to be better tankers to win this fight. He waved the other Hellcats to back off from the lip of the rise. Giving the enemy more targets would just make their aiming easier. He scrutinized the lay of the land around them. Away to their right, he noticed something a few hundred yards out, in the foreground between them and the approaching tank. Overgrown by the tall grass, and barely visible: Dragon’s Teeth – a long line of angled concrete jaws, slanting inwards to allow a tracked vehicle to easily enter, but would snag them if they tried to reverse out.

  Probably been there since the Germans were retreating here in ‘44, he thought as he continued to search for the best field of fire.

  His years of experience soon told him where to put his tank destroyer and exploit the terrain, and find the right elevation and slope for optimum fire control.

  “Shelby, put us a hundred yards to the right and further back down the slope … I want us in a defiladed position but still able to put rounds on him.”

  He also called up Lieutenant Ellery’s M18 to take up the same position they were vacating.

  That’ll split their fire between the two of us.

  The IS3 came steadily onwards. From their new position, the crew of the commander’s Hellcat watched their prey, and waited.

  Now only one thousand yards away, the Russian tank began to veer to its right, soon it would be directly between them and the rear of the Combat Command. Deming kept his glasses on it as he calmly explained to his platoon in his laconic mid-western drawl, “Now the rest of you boys stay back now … this one’s ours.”

  The hum of the engine provided a reassuring insulation from the sound of the distant battle. Deming tapped the gunner on the shoulder and it was met with an affirmative thumbs-up.

  “Fire!”

  The 90mm armor-piercing round screamed across the plain at three thousand eight hundred feet per second. Even so, the moving tank was not an easy target.

  To the Russian commander, looking out of the upturned soup-bowl of his turret, the projectile narrowly missing his head sounded like the crack of doom.

  He disappeared inside the tank, which seconds later turned toward the source of the incoming shell.

  Deming watched intently, Good … he’s going to charge us. “Drop back fifteen feet …” he called to Shelby. “That’s your rocking point!”

  “Got it sir!” the driver said as he responded by kicking the Hellcat into gear and reversing sharply.

  As they pulled back down the slope the air above them parted and slammed shut with a roar. The Russians’ shot would have landed far behind them in the forest.

  Ten seconds for them to reload …

  “Let’s start rocking!” Deming called out.

  It was the crew’s term for the standard tactic of moving backward and forward from cover. Utilizing the Hellcat’s hydramatic transmission, Shelby accelerated, then lurched to a halt fifteen feet up the slope.

  Crrabooom!

  The blast-wave from the gun’s muzzle flattened the grass around the front of the M18.

  Inside the IS3, the crew were rushing to reload. Wild-eyed looks pounced from one to another in the gloom, as a monumental clang on the hull burst cables and gauges loose from the turret’s interior – a ricochet.

  From atop the rise, Deming saw sparks fly off the tank, and a streak of light arc off into the sky. Damn HEAT rounds … bouncing off like AP.

  He called out, “Target hit!” as Shelby started backing off.

  Corporal Spane, the gunner, looked at him questioningly.

  Deming answered him. “Glanced off the left side of the turret … keep ’em coming!”

  “Should we aim for the tracks?” asked Spane, “Then kill him when he’s dead in the water …”

  “No! I want to keep him coming … try and put one on the gun mantle.”

  Another rock forward … but this one was a well-timed feint to draw the Russians’ fire. Shelby knew the enemy tank’s reload time … pull up with two or three seconds to spare, Ivan aims in … about to fire … Now! And he backs away just as the 122mm shot goes overhead.

  Another rock forward, another round fired, another miss.

  The IS3’s commander smiled grimly as he spied the lightly-armored American tank destroyer through his periscope.

  “Hellcat …” he advised his crew dismissively, “… nye vazh nee.”

  No problem.

  To the M18, the approaching tank presented a narrower, more difficult target now that is was coming head-on. Another round bounced off the triangular pike of its heavy frontal armor.

  Deming was getting worried. The Russian was now within eight hundred yards. His thin-skinned Hellcat was becoming a bigger target to them the closer they came.

  As another 122mm shell screamed past his ears, he furiously calculated the time remaining until the IS3 reache
d them. There was little doubt the enemy would have the advantage in a close fire-fight.

  Spane asked, “Need to get Ellery’s gun going? It’ll split their fire … might even panic them.”

  “Not yet … I still want them to think there’s only one of us up here.”

  Six hundred yards.

  Deming closed his eyes. The darkness allowed him to think in isolation – to visualize the battle as it was unfolding with less distraction. In his mind, he looked down from above, seeing the Russian tank approaching, taking note of its speed, the remaining distance to their own position, and that of Lieutenant Ellery’s Hellcat waiting below the slope one hundred yards to their left. It allowed him to confirm what he’d been planning to do all along.

  “Load smoke!”

  Spane looked up at his commander expectantly.

  Five hundred yards.

  Deming dropped down beside his gunner so he could explain precisely what they were going to do. His eyes fixed on to Spane’s with a life and death look.

  “Drop them fifty to seventy-five yards in front of him … no closer – he’ll think we’re covering our retreat.”

  Spane nodded, and adjusted his sights.

  The Soviet commander watched through his scope, waiting for the American to come into view again. He knew his tank was sacrificing accuracy by firing on the move, but wanted to get as close as possible to negate the enemy’s positional advantage.

  The M18’s turret came into view, and he saw a gray puff spout from its gun barrel. His mouth opened to give the fire order when the world outside suddenly went white.

  “Klaat!” he cursed.

  Blinded by the cloud of phosphorus, he gave the fire order anyway.

  “Zhaar!”

  Deming heard the round miss. One hit from the 122mm and they were dead. Making his sense of vulnerability worse, their Hellcat was now exposed because they’d ceased the rocking maneuver to maintain the rate of fire required to lay an effective smoke screen.

  “Lieutenant Ellery move up!” he called over the radio.

  Through their scopes the Russians saw the smoke clear momentarily, then another cascade of phosphorus blanketed their view. Traveling at twenty-five miles per hour, they would be at the base of the slope in under a minute.

  More smoke rounds exploded in front of them.

  The driver craned his neck as though being a few inches closer would help him to see through the cloud of white.

  He gasped, fumbling for the brake … but too late, as 45 tons of metallic momentum scraped tortuously and groaned to a dead stop.

  With the nose of the stalled tank pointing uphill at an angle, the commander flew up through his hatch to see what had happened. He sank heavily back inside and yelled, “Dragon’s Teeth! Zaad! Zaad!”

  The order to back out was a futile one. The driver restarted the engine and tried desperately to reverse but the tracks were jammed between the reinforced concrete jaws.

  The commander put his eye to the view scope, and cried with horror as he watched through the clearing smoke, a second tank destroyer two hundred yards away to their right. The IS3’s exposed flank would now be a soft target. The Hellcat’s barrel swinging directly toward him was the last thing he saw.

  ∞

  Mojave City

  2266 CE

  Virtue is the unbroken center-line dividing right and wrong on the road to innocence.

  Ji-Zhu Geist

  The sun’s rays lifted the scent of frangipani and cherry blossom into the morning air. Eya breathed in the fragrance, and knew that a pervasive sense of beauty would influence the day ahead.

  As she tended her garden, Hesta’s voice interrupted her communion with the flowers.

  “A visitor has arrived, Arjon is responding.”

  Eya continued her caretaking, thinking how very strange it was to receive an unscheduled caller. In fact, she couldn’t recall a previous instance when Hesta hadn’t advised them beforehand after receiving notice from the network.

  The transparent energy screen that formed the bower’s front entrance dissolved as Arjon approached. The visitor was dressed in comfortable attire, but with a semi-formal cut. His collared tunic spoke of authority, but was made from skinteractive fabric which regulated body temperature. His composure was relaxed and peaceful.

  “Good morning friend!” the man announced from across the threshold.

  “Yes, it certainly is …” Arjon replied.

  “My name is Thiessen. I would like to impose briefly upon your time … and hospitality.”

  Something about the man put Arjon at ease so he welcomed him inside.

  Hesta procured a tray of refreshments and delivered them to Arjon’s den via robo-server.

  “May I first explain,” Thiessen said almost apologetically, “that my visit is in no way intended to be disruptive.”

  Arjon nodded and smiled from behind his desk as he took a seat, and motioned Thiessen to do likewise.

  “You see, we received confirmation from your bower’s AI that this would be an appropriate time.”

  “Oh … but there was no notice?”

  “That’s because there is a special protocol where we are concerned.”

  “We?”

  “The Center of Truth.”

  The name struck Arjon like an electric shock.

  “I … I feel very … honored!” he stammered. “But why?”

  “Why come here – unannounced, to your tranquil home?” It was as though he were preparing Arjon for something disturbing.

  “As you are aware we do not engage with the public,” he said matter-of-factly. “We do not receive applications or grant audiences to prospective applicants … or anyone.”

  Arjon sipped his tea, feeling more privileged the more that the man spoke.

  “It is by necessity, as our purpose is to fulfill our function in a totally impartial and objective manner. Untainted by outside influences.”

  “That makes sense. No wonder so little is known about your organization.”

  “And so … here we are … and you’re wondering why we have imposed ourselves upon your precious time.”

  Arjon put down his teacup and drew a breath in anticipation.

  “It’s because of your matrix.”

  Arjon thought for a moment, he wasn’t going to bother to ask how Hesta’s matrix had come to their attention, obviously it was either from the previous year’s court case, or from the content that had required processing on the network somehow triggering the attention of the CoT’s intelligence systems.

  Seeing Arjon was unfazed, Thiessen continued. “While performing our task of verifying and securing the Truth, of ensuring the veracity of all things that encompass the Human Condition, we sometimes touch upon those less tangible elements of our existence. Having confirmed what we perceive to be the majority of truths about the known universe, we find ourselves focusing on those elusive facets; the ones we hope may guide us from a solely material version of the Truth, to a more complete version.”

  “So … you speculate by working with simulations?”

  “Yes. Imagination is a wonderful thing, don’t you think?” “Why sure, but aren’t we talking about machines?”

  “It’s a moot point … let’s not get into a metaphysical discussion or I shall never leave you in peace. Whether organic or inorganic, it has no bearing on the reliability of the source. We take care of that.”

  Arjon wanted to further explore the concept of machines using their imagination, but thought better of it, holding himself back from distracting his guest.

  Thiessen continued on enthusiastically. “Let us say that the human race’s knowledge has explained and catalogued all of the physical universe.”

  “Qwerty! That’s a big statement … then I guess there’ll be no more Enlightenments?”

  “Perhaps … and that may be the ultimate point of perfection our society can attain.”

  Thiessen paused, a glint in his eye showed that he may know more than h
e was disclosing, “Or perhaps there will be more for us to discover beyond our physical existence. Our universe has a beginning … and an end. Exactly what part humanity plays in that scenario, we believe, will not simply be explained by the physical workings of the universe.”

  “Yes! I see …” Arjon said excitedly, “… as shown by the last Enlightenment – the existence of our soul. It’s as though it has completed a kind of trinity; for three of the Pillars … the Bureau of Sanity – the mind, the Spire of Evolution – the body, and now the CoT – the soul.”

  Thiessen nodded, “Very intuitive. And I suppose the Union of Nations could be seen as merely the executive arm of the other Pillars. Interesting.”

  He shrugged off the diversion from the point he was making. “But getting back to the Enlightenment, the fact that our soul can interact with this universe, this dimension,” he allowed a moment for Arjon to digest what he was proposing, “means that our soul may be bound to it.”

  “Mmmm …” Arjon mused for a moment, “So the mind occupies the brain, and there is some connection between our mind and our soul … but that could be a restraint? That our souls too are … contained within this universe?”

  “We believe so …”

  “Bummer.”

  ∞

  Bialystok, Poland

  May 2nd, 1946

  “Cabbages … more damned cabbages,” Sergeant Abe Cooper lamented to his crew, “… they’re a mile wide and ten miles deep.”

  “C’mon, you know the Russkies love their borscht,” the gunner Lance Corporal Keponee, replied.

  “In fact, this region has been disputed by both the Russians and Germans,” Cooper advised, “before being ceded to the Poles, so due to the high percentage of immigrant farmers the result will more than likely be Polish sauerkraut.”