view in his helmet wobble.
“Give us zoom!” someone shouted in Han’s ear.
New targeting radar locked-onto Han’s drone. More shocks zapped his body, making him twist in the remote-controlling pit.
“Disengage the shock mechanism!” a disembodied voice shouted. “It’s disorienting him.”
“…done for lock-ons,” said a different tech. “The kill setting is still active, however.”
“Give me a zoom on the American vehicles!” a flight operator shouted in Han’s ear. Vaguely, he recalled the voice belonged to a battlefield operator situated in a command cruiser in the Gulf of Alaska.
Han released more decoys, but a dark streak made it through and hit his Z4 Recon Drone. A second later, a massive punishment shock jolted through him.
It was Captain Han’s initiation into the latest remote-controlling modification. Controllers never reacted to battlefield danger as tankers or jetfighters did who actually rode in the vehicles they fought in. Many professionals felt this made controllers too light-hearted about their vehicle’s destruction. One group of theorists felt that giving remote controllers punishments shocks for lock-ons and greater shocks for vehicle destruction would heighten the controller’s effectiveness. Now he or she would vigorously attempt to remain “alive.” No one had explained this to Han. The professionals felt it was better if the controllers learned this through experience. The painful surprise would help them remember later.
Captain Han groaned as his drone fell from the sky. The S-15 in his blood made the shocks many times more painful. He blacked-out and pitched from his controlling chair, taking him out of the battle in Alaska and out of consciousness in Mukden, China.
Stan shivered inside his tank as it shook from nearby impacts. The enemy bombardment had been going on for some time already. He figured the enemy used missiles, not just heavy artillery shells.
“I’d hate to be outside,” said Jose from his gunner’s seat.
Stan didn’t know how anyone wanted to be a foot soldier, especially when you thought about artillery. A military study he’d read reported that the vast majority of battle-deaths occurred from artillery shells. During the Second World War, artillery had accounted for fifty-eight percent of the casualties. Body-armor helped some against shrapnel. Deep foxholes were better.
“Hey,” said Stan, “listen.”
The others in the Abrams became quiet.
There was a screaming noise from outside—a heavy shell. The sound made Stan shiver. Then a tremendous boom tightened his muscles as the tank shook and swayed back and forth on its shock absorbers. Shrapnel peppered the tank’s skin, sounding like baseball-sized hail.
“What was
“They must have spotted us,” said Stan. “Quick, Hank, we need to move to a new location.”
Hank started the Abrams as Stan got on the radio, telling his other crews the news. It took ten gallons of JP8 jet fuel to start each tank. The M1A2’s gas turbine was a hog, but it was powerful and could drive the tank fast.
Soon, they clanked away in reverse as more enemy rounds slammed nearby. A direct hit would take out the tank. The heaviest armor was on the front, it was somewhat thinner on the sides. The rear had a tank’s lightest armor. Just like enemy Marauder tanks, they had composite armor. Theirs was Chobham RH Armor, with depleted uranium strike plates and Kevlar mesh.
In several minutes, the loud booms and shrapnel peppering stopped and the tank no longer shook from nearby impacts.
“Report,” said Stan to the other tankers.
“I can’t see anything without radar except these shells falling on us,” a tank commander said.
Stan acknowledged that. The mountains and trees badly cut down visibility.
“Can you hear that?” asked Jose, who was down below Stan and to his right in the gunner’s seat.
It was roomier in the M1A2 than in just about any tank in existence. There used to be four crewmen when the Abrams first came out. In old German tanks like the Panther, there had been five men inside. Russian tanks used to be so cramped that tankers were only chosen from among shorter men. Stan and Jose had used the extra space in the Abrams to add shells. The usual ammo allotment was kept below in special chambers so the rounds wouldn’t cook off if they were hit. It was dangerous storing extra shells in the main compartment, but Stan had decided to take the risk. He hadn’t been too sanguine about their chances for a quick re-supply of shells once the battle started.
Jose touched a hand to his headphones. He was listening to amplifiers outside the Abrams. He looked up over his shoulder at Stan.
“The Chinese are attacking,” said Jose. “With tanks,” he added.
“What kind of tanks?” Stan asked. “Is anyone reporting that?” There was a telephone attached by a cord outside the tank. It was there for the Militiamen spotters to tell them what they saw.
Jose shrugged. “No one is saying, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon enough.”
The technicians had forced a cocktail of stimulants down Captain Han’s throat. He was awake and back in his chair, the VR helmet strapped on tight and his twitch gloves ready.
“What happened?” Han whispered. He felt disoriented. With his VR helmet’s visor, he saw the snowy ground and the looming slopes on the road ahead of him. American tracer-rounds already bounced off his armored skin. Behind him, he saw with a backward-viewing camera, crouched naval infantrymen moving out of a wall of smoke. The soldiers wore dinylon body-armor and cradled heavy assault rifles, SPET-tubes and RPGs.
“You’re leading the attack,” a tech informed Han.
Han nodded as orders rattled in his earpiece. He was part of the Battle-Net attacking the American position, with the 160th and 322nd Naval Infantry Battalions and two companies of light drone tanks. The enemy seemed to be ready for them, as the Americans held even after a fierce artillery pounding. It was the reason for the drone tanks, the first vehicle of the pack under Han’s remote control. These days, Chinese battle doctrine called for drone tanks leading overrun assaults. They were suicide-tanks, meant to absorb the worst enemy punishment.
“Please, no more shocks,” Han told the techs in the underground chamber with him.
“You will face a severe shock if your tank is destroyed,” a tech said near his ear. “But we have turned off the skin-strike shock-responder. Too many bullets are bouncing off your armor.”
“No!” shouted Han. “Why are you shocking me for dying, for my tank’s destruction? I’m on a suicide mission. It’s the reason our side is using drones.”
“Concentrate on your battlefield task,” a tech advised, “and do not quibble about drone doctrine.”
Han breathed heavily as he began to fear. He dreaded the idea of receiving another death-shock. With a roar of anguish, he tore off his VR helmet and stood up in the pit. It was disorienting. The two techs at the boards swiveled around in their chairs, one on either side of him. Han’s head and shoulders were higher than the floor. The rest of his body was sunken in the pit.
“I’m finished with this,” said Han.
The shorter tech scowled. “If we must summon the enforcer, tell me now, as it will save time.”
“You mean the muscled lieutenant?” asked Han. The man had spoken to him earlier about obedience. Now the talk made sense.
“Exactly,” the tech said. “Now hurry please, inform us of your decision, as your stalled tank is causing confusion.”
Han swallowed hard, and he pleaded, “I can’t take more of those death-shocks.”
“Complaining is futile,” the taller tech said. “Simply get on with your task, and if you can, stay alive.” The tech turned to a com-board before glancing a last time at Han and raising an eyebrow.
“Stay alive,” Han whispered. He nodded as he shoved the VR helmet onto his head. The Alaskan scene leaped back into view. The sounds of battle played in his earpiece, but not so loudly that he couldn’t hear the battle operator’s comments.
With his twitch-gloves, Han used his cameras to look around. Most of the other tank-drones were ahead of him now. Each tank was a Xing T-29 Marauder, a light tank with an un-turreted 130mm smoothbore gun and two
