Wind

[Ten hours later]

I was adrift in a sea of sand, my back rolling against the lapping waves. My eyes incapable of closing, staring straight into a midnight-blue abyss. The flora swam beneath me as my weightless body drifted through the sands, just atop the surface. I could hear my heart in my ears, every tendril of my hair, digging into the core of the Earth, and I could hear noises through the darkness from beneath. Screaming, crying, demanding.

My eyes snapped open. My back against a cold, metal frame, the only reprieve from the chill of the ocean's gale that found its way into the transport ship was the thick wool blanket that covered my almost nude frame. I didn't feel at ease on that ship, nor did I feel comfortable leaving the dead behind. Surely, they would make it back home to the American Continent, to their families? Their homes?

I did not wish to linger on that thought- by all accounts, we were still deep in the frontier, and danger was always a moment from us. As I slipped out of bed, I caught a glimpse of my short crew cut hair, and the bony angles of my face. Ambient rays of light caught my shirt at just the right angle to show the lithe, boyish figure showing through my shirt. Turning away from the mirror, I walked to the locker and opened it up, pulling out my coveralls and boots. In my periphery, I noticed someone stirring further back in the two-bunk berthing compartment. For a brief moment, I was startled, but let that emotion go as I noticed the familiar face of my tank's Hispanic gunner.

"Driver," Martinez whispered from his bunk across the room. "The fuck you doin', kid?"

-"Going out for a look," I responded curtly, as I pulled my coveralls on and slipped my feet into my boots, tightening the straps and buckling them in a singular, fluid-like motion. "Rack's too cold."

Martinez sighed as he relaxed in his bunk a bit more, pointing over to his locker.

"Pues, take my chaqueta, muchacha, or you're gonna freeze up there."

I took his advice and looked to his locker, opening it and pulling out his old, oil-scented 'chaqueta'- far too large for me, but I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I pulled it on over my thin shoulders and walked through the door of the compartment, heading towards the top deck of the ship, doing my best to pull the sleeves up from covering my hands.

The long walk topside was punctuated with the gentle swaying of the boat against the Balearic sea's tempestuous waves. As my head reached above the hatch, my eyes caught a glimpse of the town we were still moored to. The rocking of the large vessel was not just perceptive, but very real. A storm had rushed in overnight while were were sleeping. Terrible gales whisked across the ship and assisted in rocking it back and forth. From my vantage point, the Village was relatively small, and the walls seemed at this height to be a simple inconvenience for a giant's stride. But that was not all I witnessed.

Further out in the countryside, another storm system gathered in the distance. Lightning strikes illuminated that part of the darkness, basking everything in a brilliant array of blue-white light, for just a moment. I'm not sure what I saw in that distance, but it got the sentries in the town fired up. Soon enough, they were ringing bells and shouting something in the darkness of the night and after a moment, a small group of three men revealed themselves from their homes, conversed with the sentry, then whisked themselves toward the transport ship. As they trotted up the gangplank, they spoke aloud to any who could hear. Their broken interpretation of my language seemed nearly unintelligible at first, but as the watchman discussed it with the sentries, he nodded and headed below deck, rushing past me.

"What is it?" I asked as the watchman was busy opening the hatch to get below deck. He stopped and looked me dead in the eyes as he spoke, an expression of stress and fatigue added impact to his report.

"Movement and heat signatures up the road- they're not expecting couriers or delivery. We're going to have to put you back out there to protect the town- we signed a contract to protect this town as long as we were moored here...so, get your people together and meet up in the hold, I'm sending out the notice for General Quarters."

As he opened the hatch, he slid down the stairs via the railing, as I trotted down the steps behind him, down the long corridor. He broke left down another hall as I continued straight towards the berthing containers.

Martinez must have heard my boots knocking against the steel plate from the stairwell, because as I slid to the door, He was already suited up, and rushed out, moving further down the hallway, banging on the adjacent container's door.

"Whitman, Sanders! Get up!" He shouted as he slid the door open, rushing into the container and quickly switching the lights on.

"Contact! Contact! We gotta get to the hold!" He shouted again, this time, the thick steel door didn't dampen his voice, as Sanders and Whitman both flung out of their racks, and quickly donned their equipment. I hurried off to the next stairwell down, hoping to make it to the hold as fast as my legs could carry me. Just then, the klaxons began to blare through the ship, as well as the red strobes that cast the dimly lit hallways in a sea of red.

"General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands, to your stations!"

Suddenly, the ship was alive with activity. Sailors and crewmen rushed from their berthing containers to man their posts, shouting, asking what was going on, to hurry up; I cared for none of it. I needed to get to the hold, but now every corridor was buzzing, teeming with bodies. Eventually, a group of larger men were heading in the same direction I was going, and I let them clear a path while I trailed right behind them. The thin corridor suddenly opened up, revealing the hold, where various heavy equipment and extra supplies were held, and off to the corner, closest to the door, was our tank- covered in a tarpaulin.

I stopped just past the door and looked behind me to see the rest of my crew finally making their way to the hold as well, but I dared not stop past that point. I immediately ran over to the vehicle and removed the tarp that covered it, unhitching one side and quickly clambering atop the hull to pull the protective layer away. Once that was finished, I quickly removed Martinez's jacket and left it on the hull, while I hopped up to the commander's hatch, unlocking it and opening it to access the master unlock.

With the resounding hiss of compressed air, the driver's compartment opened, as well the as the magazine, still half-full, as we had left it. I hopped back down into the driver's hatch and then buttoned up once again, reaching down under my seat to grab my helmet and comms headset, while the others mounted the vehicle just as quickly as I had.

Without waiting for a prompt, I started the engine and did a quick systems check. CPU good, engine good, fire suppression was on, and the fuel was half. I heard Whitman shouting above me, trying to get someone to get the landing ramp dropped so we could roll out into the town, and after a moment, I could hear the warning bells ringing alongside the klaxon. As soon as Whitman buttoned up, however, the sounds of the chaos outside were dampened. Only the humming of the Honeywell engine and the computer diagnostics running behind me were heard. Static came over the radio, followed by a garbled transmission. Whitman cursed and quickly adjusted the frequency so we could all hear what was going on as the message cleared.

"-...een tanks and infantry, we are currently setting up our ship defenses, but we need you on the ground, how copy, Saber Company?"

- "Say again, how many tanks did you say?"

"Fifteen, with infantry support. You should be able to back up straight and clear out of the landing ramp."

- "Understood, moving out now," Was Whitman's response. He unbuttoned, and allowed the ruckus outside fill the crew compartment as he looked out behind us, giving instructions to me.

"Okay, Driver, back up, real easy-like..."

With that, I shifted to reverse, and slowly eased the tank back from the racks of equipment and crates of supplies. Meanwhile, Whitman was already giving commands to Sanders.

"Check ammo, load SABOT. Motherfuckers wanna wake me up before I've had coffee, we're gonna let 'em have it."

- "Roger that, sir. Gun's up."

"Martinez, as soon as we're out, switch to white-hot. Driver, once we get backed out, straighten out and get us out of town."

- "Out of town?" I asked.

"Roger. We're moving to engage those targets, but we're obligated to protect the town as much as possible."

With that, I backed the tank off the ramp, straightened out and drove forward, turning off the pike and rolling out the gate, driving behind a row of hedgerows, as Martinez rotated the turret, scanning for targets. My eyes tried to adjust to the low-light, before snapping on the night-vision in my periscope, forcing myself to lean forward to get a better look at my surroundings. Meanwhile, Martinez found something through all the vegetation.

"Identify Tank! VT4's in the open!"

-"Standby, Martinez, I see foot-mobiles engaging...It's the townsfolk, the VT4's are shooting at them- Shit, Fire at will!"

The sudden blast of the cannon nearly made me jump out of my seat as I rotated the periscope to get a better view for a moment. Through the periscope, I saw the last bit of sparks hit the first VT4, its ERA detonating as it rotated its turret.

"Driver! Forward! Forward!" Whitman shouted as I gunned the throttle, feeling the tank lurch forward as I turned my eyes back forward, as the gun maintained its position, as Sanders loaded another round. As the breech closed, the gun fired again. An elated shout from Martinez gave me the notification that the tank had been defeated, followed by Whitman's order to target the next tank.

Another charge loaded, and the breech fired again, the rest of the crew moving like clockwork, while I continued driving through the field.

Suddenly, Whitman ordered me to stop.

"Driver, hold position...Two more VT4's are in the field and are scanning for us. Sanders, ammo check; how many A3s do we have aboard?"

-"At least 9, boss."

"Fuck it, load the A3s. We're going to need all the punch we can get out of it."

-"Roger, loading A3s, 10 seconds."

As I scanned through my periscope, I could see the tanks in the distance trying to get their shots off on us, leaving an opening for the villagers to fire more AT rockets into their sides, more secondary explosions were triggered by their ERA detonating, obscuring the tanks in smoke as Sanders finished loading. From where I could see, we were parked behind a low hill, giving us a good position to protect our main hull. Martinez rotated the turret and found his next target.

"VT-4 looking right at us, boss."-"Understood, fire away!"

The tank rocked again with another shell flying out of the gun. This time, I watched as the round impacted the VT-4's turret, the target suddenly sitting motionless, as a man tried to clamber out of the vehicle, flames dashed across the tails of his jacket as he tried to escape, but was cut down by machine-gun fire.

"Good kill! Load!"

-"Up!"

"Next one, Fire!"

Another concussive shock-wave as Sanders removed the spent shell and reloaded, the shot hitting right on the driver's sight. The tank fired back as its turret rotated suddenly, the shell crashing into the ground a few meters away from them, sending dirt and

debris into the air.

No command was given now as the next shell fired, piercing the tank once again- this time, the tank's movement stopped as smoke billowed out of the holes punctured into its surface. A Gustav rocket slammed into the side of the tank, and suddenly, flames

shot out of it. As the ammo load went up, Sanders loaded another shell as Martinez scanned the gun.

"Identify targets, four more tanks- More , 700 Meters out, coming out of the wood line."

The enemy tanks didn't hesitate to fire on the villagers arranged in the shallow ditch, firing as much HE as they had aboard, forcing their heads down.

"Hey, stop them from attacking the civilians- We let 'em die, then we've got a lot of explaining to do," Whitman said as he adjusted something on the targeting computer.

"Martinez, engage those tanks!"

-"Roger- Range 635...600. Firing!"

The smoke from the cannon shook the viewfinder as the shell made a beeline for the closest target- at this range, it was bound to penetrate. Sure enough, the shell impacted the side armor, and the fuel went up, seeping onto the ground beneath the tank as the other three turned to engage us directly. Two more shots rang out as a loud, metallic noise was heard, followed by the sudden sucking of air.

We were hit. The tank shook violently in that instant, throwing my head forward as the shell hit the left track.

"Shit," Whitman said aloud as Martinez Returned fire. "We got one in the left tread: we're stuck for now- Driver, get out and fix that sucker!"

My gut twisted into a knot at that order- but he was right- The tank was effective for now, but if we wasted too much time in that draw, they'd easily out-flank us. After a short moment of collecting myself, I unbuckled from the seat and opened the escape hatch, and climbed out, making sure to keep my stomach against the hull of the tank and fall out head first, tucking my chin to my chest as I rolled out. As I did, another shell impacted the draw in front of us, and threw out soil across the air I was breathing.

Shit. Shit. This was starting to get dangerous. With sure feet, I ran behind the tank and retrieved the emergency repair kit from the engine hatch, as well as the spare treads, and ran over to the tread to repair it. The wind cracked with the gunfire and tank shells buzzing around as I heard Martinez fire the cannon again. As I pulled out the giant ratchet, another shell hit beside us, knocking me to the ground.

"Driver! You alright?" I could hear Whitman shout at me through comms as I fought my way back up to my feet, hoisting my up against the body of the tank, coughing to get the muscles in my chest to stop the sensation of numbness from the shock wave. I

grabbed the ratchet from the ground and started getting to work, the melted steel on the damaged tread gave off a bluish smoke amid the glittering of the flares in the sky- had I enough time, I could give an accurate depiction of it, but time was short.

Martinez fired another shell, receiving one in return, this one hitting the commander's camera, sending sparks out and illuminating our patch of darkness as I hurriedly cranked the tool, freeing the tread from its housing. I attempted to reach and pull it off, but as soon as my hand hit the steel, the sudden sensation of heat forced me to recoil in pain.

Stupid.

I reached with the bottom of the tool and used it as a pry-bar, removing the destroyed tread and quickly attaching the new one, as the enemy tanks got closer now, and responded to our tank's immobility with machine gun rounds. Tracers danced across the low berm, a few hitting the front of the tank as Martinez fired once again.

This time I could hear the impact of that tank, and the sudden shouting of men as they got out of their vehicle, rushing towards my position. A sharp chill stabbed my back as I realized they were trying to get close.

"They dismounted!"

-"Shit, Driver's still out there!"

"She can fend for herself! Keep firing!"

-"Lost visual!"

I reached to my hip and gripped the holster, drawing the weapon out from its cloth housing, and gripped the weapon firmly in both hands. As I flipped the safety off the Browning Hi-power and aimed it at the top of the berm, the shouts of men became louder.

"Driver, they're coming, we're gonna spray the hillside!" I heard Martinez shout on the radio as he did as intended, littering the entire top of the hill with 7.62. Whitman, for his part, opened the commander's hatch and manned the fifty, letting off a long burst.

I heard Whitman scream as he pounded rounds down range. After a moment of intense panic, my mind realized I still needed to get the tank fixed, and holstered my weapon, before snatching the large tool off the ground. My gloved hands frantically tightened the first nut onto the housing, the gunfire subsiding for a moment. I thought the immediate danger had passed, but I was sorely mistaken, as a man in green coveralls clambered above the hill top, his shotgun aimed directly at me.

Instinctively, I reached my weapon out to fire, and as I did, I swear I could see the first round hitting him, just as Whitman and Martinez both engaged him. As he fell back down the hill, his shotgun fired, and for a brief moment, I thought I had been hit- feeling my knees buckle suddenly under my weight. I sat there for what felt like minutes as the gunfire slowly subsided.

"Driver! You ok, kid?"

Slowly, I checked myself, and luckily, I was. I turned to tell my commander I was alright, but then I noticed Whitman's face. Blood was dashed across the front of it as he gave a stern look to me.

"Fix the tank, we gotta get back to the ship."

-"You ok, Whitman?" I asked.

"I'll be fine, spark hit across my forehead...Hard to keep the blood out of my eyes- just fix the goddamn thing."

I gave him a thumbs up as I slowly holstered the pistol and tried to stop my emotions from taking over and crumpling into a fearful, crying mess. Slow breaths, focusing on my job. Fix the tank.

With the second nut fastened, and the new treads in place, I slowly climbed back onto the tank and got a solid look at the damage. Eight tanks destroyed, their burning husks illuminated the darkness as I slowly made my way back into my seat. I silently buckled up as Martinez resumed scanning for targets. Sweat poured down his face and into his beard as his knee rocked up and down like a mad seamstress pumping a jig.

"Got more heat signatures in the distance, same hillsideabout 800 meters-"

At that moment, the ship must have just gotten their defenses online, because the next thing we saw was a shower of rockets impacting the same target area.

Bright star-like flashes danced through the air as they hit the tanks and set them alight. Burnt offerings scattered the hillside as salvo after salvo hit the hills, setting trees and timber on fire.

"Driver, get us back. Nice and easy, if we slip the track, we'll have to ditch the tank, and I haven't lost one yet," Whitmanordered as I slowly eased the vehicle back home. Thankfully, the track didn't slip, but there was a distinct jitter pulling the tank slightly left. It was good for now, the mechanics would see to it that it was repaired. I was more concerned for my commander.

Everyone else looked a bit shaken up, just as they had after the encounter with the Maus.

"That was for everyone we lost," Martinez muttered. "To Hell with them."

Nobody dared say a word after that. We were, frankly, too tired and frustrated with the day's events to care.

As we rolled back into the hold, and brought the tank to a full shutdown, Whitman got on the radio and called for maintenance. We didn't have to wait long as they looked over the damage, as we disembarked the vehicle, Whitman brought a sleeve up to his

forehead and dabbed the graze he had, hissing in pain as Sanders reached into his jacket to pull out a gauze bandage, unpacking it and pressing it against Whitman's head, which caused him to yelp in pain as the two of them went to the sick bay.

Martinez and I, on the other hand, stayed behind to watch the maintenance crews a

bit. I was still coming down from the intensity of that battle, and didn't notice that Martinez started talking to me, quite candidly.

"...We killed a lot of pendejos today- and you were thanks to that, kid," Martinez said, smiling slightly. "You're good at handling wheels...Y'know, I admit, when we picked you up out of Norfolk four months ago, I didn't think you'd make it past your

first engagement. Pero, look at you; You didn't lose your cool when we took on Crazy Horse, you were focused when we engaged that big fucking tank the other day, and now, you got us through another fight- and you just bagged us a good pay-day with 8 tanks

killed...Let's go see how Whitman's doing."

As the mechanics started getting to work on our tank, Martinez spoke again as we walked down the long corridors to the Sick Bay.

"Whitman- he's a good guy, I've known him for about 2 years. Sanders, about 8 months...The two of you guys were good choices for replacements. I see that now...and that also means I'm out 500 Coin."

"Sounds like you and Whitman have been around," I remarked, finally finding my voice. Martinez shook his head.

"He's only been my commander for a year- he got promoted when Willis got killed back in London. You replaced his old job. Then Smith got killed when he OD'd on some bad shit in Holland."

"London? Holland?" Strange names for places. Just like the small

villages around this land.

"Shit, my bad- All these places used to be sovereign nations; countries and shit. Their own governments and economies. Though from what I remember in civics, economic downturn forced the nations to war with each other, or they defaulted on their loans.

Corporations swooped in and saved the day...but when the war happened, statists showed up and fucked everything to hell...now, these territories are pretty much open fields with small villages. Most places are willing to trade...But the first team we sent out

here- the Samsonites? That was what was left of 'em- crazy motherfuckers tried to establish a free nation."

"You mean a 'democracy'?" I asked. Martinez nodded at that statement and thought on it for a moment.

"Weird shit, man. Elected officials and bureaucracy...somehow the system worked for like, what, 400 years or something? Anyway, that kind of thinking is dead now. Just like the world we live in. Should've seen London before we came in there and fixed it up.

People were living in blown-up buildings and in the metro tunnels.

DyNaCo came in and fixed all that up...They'd still be lost without us."

"Without us, or without money?"

The gunner stopped and rubbed the stubble on his chin, glancing over to me.

"You know, I'm not sure...maybe...both? I can't say for sure which...But, what they had before we showed up was much worse. Flat-out anarchy, man. People were killing each other over concrete and bullets. Not a lot of tank fighting in the cities, but there was a lot of cleaning house, though. Out in the countryside, up North? Those were some wild battles. Tanks hiding in plain sight. Camouflaged, man..."

As we neared the Sick Bay, we could see Whitman and Sanders conversing with the doctor on station, as well as the ship's Captain. The officer looked over to us and pointed towards me.

"You- the Mannequin said she wanted to speak with you

directly. Come with me..."

With that, I started to follow him, hearing Whitman talk to the doctor about any symptoms related to his injury. Martinez gave a wave goodbye as he smiled.

"Later, shortie," He called out as I waved back to my crew.

Whitman and Sanders returned the wave as I followed the Captain further upstairs to the communications hub.