Storm

We pushed through the highway, some weird name, La Langue-dough-Sin, or something, and found ourselves amidst the ruins of what was once a modern city. Carcasses of buildings hollowed out and stripped of anything of value or flattened into mounds of rubble and dust. Mangled steel and ashen wood littered the street, but it did not hinder our movement, clocking in somewhere between twenty to forty kilometers to navigate the rubble.

Our tank was on point, Whitman barking directions while pulling double duty--scanning the GPS and looking for targets, while Martinez kept his eyes on the sights. Sanders relayed radio traffic to our sister companies while I kept our tank column moving--Slowly, but steadily.

We had just crossed into a heavily urbanized area and drove past a supermarket when Whitman suddenly barked in surprise.

"Identify Tank! 500 Meters! All Saber break off and establish a firing line, due Northwest!" I rotated the tank and adjusted its position behind the abandoned supermarket, driving into it. The treads flattened the rusted shelves and the muzzle pierced through the back wall, backing up to allow the cinderblock to fall freely, allowing the gun and sights to peer out of the open wall. The other tanks arranged themselves as best as they could, given the terrain. Our real-time satellite displayed tanks still covering the road from both flanks while several tanks engaged the King Black Panther in the

distance.

"Martinez! Do you have a shot?" Whitman shouted.

- "Got his turret, nothing else. Sabot Away."

The fire kicked more cinder dust out of the hole in the wall, clouding our color monitors. I quickly switched to thermal as I double checked our GPS. We were just 2 miles outside of the city center.

"Load Sabot!"

- "UP!"

"Fire!"

Another thunderous shockwave. Cinder blocks begin to knock against the chassis of the tank, followed in part by the other tanks, engaging the tank as well, until a plume of smoke bled into the grey sky above the horizon.

"Killed. Scanning!" Whitman kept his eyes on periscope, rotating as best as he could. He assumed all was calm, until someone shouted on Vox in a manner I had not heard before.

"Crazy Horse position West! Looks like a Golf Course! Gauntlet, break off and engage West! We'll take the flank and secure the advance!"

The Leopard X tanks that comprised Gauntlet Company danced away from our positions, leaving plumes of cinder smoke and dust, their dapple camouflage working very well in the foliage as they disappeared from our flank. We backed the tank out to maximize our

maneuverability and to keep our flank protected as Saber Actual gave commands over the net.

"All Saber press into the city. Shield Company take the right flank and cover our advance into the city.

- "Roger."

Whitman checked his GPS one more time.

"Driver, get back on the road and push into the city, Lead Saber in."

This was it. I felt knots in my stomach as I throttled forward into the city proper. The engine masked my anxious sigh as we pressed forward, the smell of cinder block filled my nostrils as the winds kicked up from the sea to our East, fluffing up the billowing gray clouds and coaxing moisture from them. It would rain soon, and hopefully, would give us some concealment from the enemy.

As we pushed through the ruins of the city perimeter, the rain began to fall. Whitman uttered a curse through our local radio, before ordering me to stop at the edge of a corner, as Martinez rotated the turret left to look down the road.

"Can't see shit," Martinez quipped, as Sanders adjusted the seat below his ass.

- "Have you tried thermal yet?" A moment of silence passed by before Martinez stopped checking the viewport to glance over at Sanders, trying to hide a smirk as he realized that there was indeed, thermal imaging on the tank.

"Fuck you, maricon."

- "Stow it, keep an eye out.

The rain picked up in intensity as the clouds began to mask the blue sky above, turning the bright colors still evident in the town into dulled gray hues. Sheets of rainwater poured across the long stretch of road in the direction of the wind, while Martinez and Whitman scanned fervently for another target.

Nothing came.

"Saber Actual, this is 2-1, We see nothing on scope, permission to advance?" Whitman waited patiently as Saber Actual was most likely double-checking tank positions.

- "Negative, 2-1, That intersection is a likely flanking route. Hold fast. Shield and Gauntlet are trying to push the rest of Crazy Horse towards you and the rest of Saber. Whitman cursed. Actual was right. He sighed and slouched a bit in his chair.

"Roger that, Actual. Saber 2 standing fast."

When two PMCs met on the field, they fought like professionals. They killed each other in honor of their profession, in honor of their decision to chase glory.

During the Corporate wars, a few rules were established following the establishment of the major corporations that were agreed upon in Chicago.

The first rule is to never interfere in the business of another Corporation's PMC operation unless you intend to take ground. This applied mostly to the corporations surrounding a battlespace, but it could easily apply to other PMCs trying to affect the outcome between corporations. There were a dozen other ones, but the ones PMCs follow were a lot simpler to comprehend- you know, for the sake of brevity.

The rules I remembered, at least the ones that mattered, were thus:

Money steels the conviction. The one paid more will always win.

Treat rivals with respect for their prowess and presence. It takes a god among men-- or a fool-- to choose this profession.

Murder is committed in cold-blood, without a reason, is forbidden. A warrior should only kill in battle, when it is unavoidable.

Keep your word, even if you die for it.

Death is:

Your mistress- You shall take no other.

Your guide- You shall not betray it.

Your teacher- Every instance of death should be treated as a lesson for yourself- or for others.

The Word Mercenary holds negative connotations even to this day.

Always remember you must earn trust and respect by committing yourself to success: Train hard, Fight harder. The more you bleed, cry, cuss, and doubt in training, the less you shall do in battle. That is how you prove your worth.

Never betray the company you are with to seek fortune elsewhere. The completion of your contract with brothers is better than seeking fortune alone.

I remember days when we would run into PMCs armed to the nines with tanks, RPGs, TOW missiles and they'd let us pass by into territory a Corporation wanted--They just let us through. They had no stake in the affair, they'd keep out of it. That was how we did business...But now? I didn't know.

We sat there quietly for what felt like an eternity, listening to our radio traffic. The storm increased in its strength, the wind turning the rain into millions of little knives striking the chassis of our tank. The Radio came to life then amidst the colossal roar of thunderheads striking each other above our heads.

"All Saber, Saber Actual, Mannequin advises that we hold position until the storm passes--WeatherNet, Meteo1, and several other weather observation companies are reading a massive thunderstorm pushing through the region powered by a massive High-pressure system from Africa. Winds in excess of 65 Miles per hour, rainfall averaging-"

A strike of lightning hit the ground in front of us, killing our electronics for a moment, before everything flickered back on. The thunder following the strike of the lighting obscured the radio transmission as the IR scopes flickered from the strike. It was safe to say we were a little spooked by the sudden change of weather, but it was common, especially near the dead zones in Africa. Nuclear fire purged that place years ago, and the environment had become unstable as a result. Somewhere between Nuclear Winter and Global Warming. Always a storm of snow, ice, dust, or rain. The domes back home helped with the planting and growing...Made me wish I was there now--just for a moment.

Saber Actual's voice came back on the radio, his concern apparent.

"Saber 2, Did you copy my last, over?"

- "Saber Actual, this is Saber 2, be advised, we just got hit with lightning. Electronics ok, we're good. Still scanning our sectors."

A few moments passed before someone from Gauntlet Company came on Vox.

"All Companies, this is Gauntlet 2! We have uh-ah...Fuckingbig-fucking piece of shit rolling towards us! I have no idea what it is."

- "Calm down, Gauntlet Actual-"

"Fuck that! This thing killed Gauntlet 4, 6, 9, and Actual! Sabot ineffective! Squash Ineffective! Oh hell- "

The line went dead. Whitman looked down the hatch at me.

"Fuck...Actual, this is 2, Do you have eyes on?"

- "Standby...That's a Maus."

"What?! Like, that German prototype?"

- "Yeah, but...This is different. Two main cannons, sloped armor, ERA...I saw Gauntlet get taken out. They were throwing sabot right at its front, it just rolled out from behind that big hill from the northeast...The colors aren't Crazy Horse Blue. Red Stripes with Black trim. KPW..."

...

"Shit", Whitman took a deep breath. "There's gotta be a way to beat it."

- "Flank it. We have to take its flank, Whitman. I'll draw its fire, I'm at its 2 O'clock. I'll try and move its turret away from you. Hit that road as fast as you can and push through the town onto the other side. Don't stop for anything; Crazy Horse, KPW, God, Allah, Buddah, I don't care. You push. Roll out!"

"You heard the man, Driver! PUSH! Load! Sabot!"

- "Sabot, sabot! Got it! UP!" I pulled the throttle as far back as it would go, the Tank's

Honeywell engine whirring to life as I fed the girl with speed, her treads pulling the road over her with zealous ambition as the roar of tank cannons could be heard in the distance. Actual had left his radio on Vox by mistake- We could hear the fear, the determination in his voice as he ordered his men.

"30 Degrees, he's at 50, Get him to rotate the turret! Come on, Goines! PUSH! Load Sabot!"

"Up!"

"FIRING!"

"Watch the terrain! HILL! FU- "

The clattering of steel plate, the shouts of young adventurers like ourselves, not of joy, but of fear. I felt chills through my entire body, radiating up to my ears as we thundered through the most direct route out of the city. Sure enough, we careened past a few Crazy-Horse tanks looking in the opposite direction towards Saber Actual.

The guys in my tank didn't notice, they were too focused on the Maus while the rest of the combined unit engaged the Crazy-Horse units. As for the Maus, it was moving towards us as the turret traversed right, trying to track Actual's movements and fire ahead of him. We were less than 500 meters from him, and the size of the tank finally came into perspective. The Maus towered over us, it seemed. The height of Two Abrams tanks, plus half.

Heat waves from the compartment caught my attention as I pulled the tank closer.

"Jesus," Martinez said. "I'm adjusting angle, don't get too close, I can't get a shot on it."

- "Actual, this is 2, we're coming up on the Maus now, How you holding up?"

Silence.

"Saber Actual, this is 2, copy my last, Over?"

No time to ask again, I adjusted to the right, and Martinez traversed the gun left as we rolled past its heavy plates on the side and arrived at the soft backside of the Maus. I could see the lettering on the Exhaust panel where the engines were churning as

hard as possible, I could make out the white paint of the stencil:

MAUS 40K. Property of KPW.

I stomped on both brakes, the tank lurching forward and digging its heels into the wet

dirt as the rain continued to pour.

"IN POSITION!" I screamed, the anxiety filled my chest as the reality set in that this was do-or-die.

Martinez adjusted the muzzle just above the exhaust plate, aiming at the large cylindrical barrel attached to its backside. I didn't hear Whitman give the order to fire, but the cannon kicked us back a bit, and I could see the sabot penetrate the rear armor with a shower of sparks and flame shoot out the back, followed by smoke. The fire was yellow like the sun, illuminating the ground, and soaking the ground in flames before being put out by the rainwater above and below.

"Load, Squash! C'mon! Fast!"

Sanders' squat body made quick work of changing shells. The guy was a powerlifter in his off-time when he wasn't boozing or looking for meat to fill.

-"UP!"

Martinez was sucking on his bottom lip, some blood dribbling from his mouth as he pressed his forehead into the scope, trying to get his angle just right. He pressed the trigger and the round came out, the plastic tip smashing into the steel and turning even more of the thin plate in the rear into a void filled with burning gasoline. Smoke billowed out from every crevice of the tank now, but something told Whitman and Martinez to continue.

"Gimme HEAT!"

- "UP!"

"FIRE! SUCK IT!"

The smoke was suddenly replaced with flames licking the paint off the tank as the hatches roared open with flames, a few people running out completely engulfed in flames.

Whitman hollered as soon as the bodies piled out of the Maus.

"FOOT MOBILE! GET HIS ASS!"

The chattering of 7.62 brass falling onto the steel of the tank filled my ears as I watched as those burning bodies fell dead face-first into the puddles. Silence. Nothing on radio. Nothing on scope. Whatever had happened during that tense engagement, we hadn't seen, nor heard of it.

"Clear the town. About face and clear it, before the ammo goes up..."

I did as instructed, throwing the throttle to reverse and turn back into the town, where the last two tanks in town were Crazy Horse. They still had not moved from their last position, it seemed. I moved the tank forward far enough away that the shells cooked off into the Maus behind us. We quickly dispatched the last two Crazy Horse tanks, before sitting idly in the tank for what seemed like an eternity. Whitman rested his head back against nothing, allowing his head to roll back as he took a deep breath, before hitting VOX.

"All Saber, this is 2. How copy, Over?"

Silence, again. Whitman sounded concerned as he relayed the message again and again. Finally, The Mannequin came on the radio, her voice, different.

"Whitman." She said softly. Whitman's eyes glanced to Sanders, who looked down to me. Something just happened.

Amidst the chaos, the desperation of combat, we did not notice oursurroundings.

- "Yes, M'am."

"...Saber is gone. Gauntlet is gone. Shield bugged out when the Maus appeared. You're all that's left of Saber."

- "Actual's gone..."

"You're the Acting Commander of Saber, Whitman. Come on home. Our job's done."

A moment of silence passed through our tank, the rain still stinging our armor as we sat there. Whitman inhaled sharply, the mark of sorrow in his voice as he pulled back phlegm from his throat.

"Yes, M'am....Driver!" There was a pause. "Roll out."

The trip back was quiet. No music, no conversation. We drove with the hatches open and the wet air in our face as we stopped at the Port town we were at a few days prior. A few days ago we were on top. Now? Bottom tier. Us and Crazy Horse. Nothing left but broken men and tired souls.

We stayed in port for 3 days, our tank sitting quietly at the harbor, chained. Locked. Put away. Whatever pay we got- a tidy sum due to all of Saber's unfortunate demise- was spent on room, food, beer. All we wanted. I hated every moment of it...The pain of our

loss was only multiplied by our forced exile from the battlefield to return home.

Before that, however...We had to bury our friends. Battlefield recovery had retrieved all the dead from Gauntlet and Saber. We zipped them up in DyNaCo corpse bags repainted: Sienna and BlackSaber company's colors for ours, and Blue and Black- for Gauntlet. They rested beneath an old oak tree that shaded the ocean dock, as we stood watch over them, taking the time to contemplate our mistakes, even the wild rainstorm that slowly chilled into snow that seemed to complicate our logistics for the time being.

The tanker that arrived for our tank and the bodies belonged to Saber Company. As we rolled the tank into cargo, and the bodies into the morgue with the help of staffers, we made our way towards the first empty bunks we could find and made our nests.

I found myself a fair distance away from my team, but the isolation was comforting for the moment...

In the darkness, alone with my thoughts, I had time to assess the situation.

In all technicality, we completed our primary objectives, and despite the losses, we were doing fine. We'd head back home, and after a refit and new bodies to fill the new tanks we'd be issued, we'd be back out here, keeping the frontier clean, and hopefully, maintaining order for DyNaCo in the European frontier- A place where democracy was now replaced with the reality of its flaws. In its place, corporations, backed by private militaries of various sizes and types, capable of handling even the toughest of jobs. If

we failed? It was of no consequence to the corporate backers. They'd pump more money to the arms manufacturers, more money to the training camps, and another company would take our place.

Such is the life of a tank mercenary.