for the last time. The monster tank was in the desert where Jose, the driver and he had left it yesterday. Las Vegas’s mountains rose in the distance as the sun worked to show itself, the first rays lighting the edges of the mountaintops.
Stan sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. It tasted good and was an antidote against the desert chill. He wore a coat and waited for Jose to gather his tools in the Humvee.
Yesterday, the Behemoth had engine trouble again. It had been having problems of this sort for several weeks. After hours of exhausting work, they had headed to base for the night. He hadn’t told the colonel about the trouble. He didn’t want to speak to the man again until he was a civilian, out from under Wilson’s control.
Stan took another sip of coffee. He’d told his wife what he’d told Wilson the other day about leaving for John Glen. She’d hardly heard him. All she could think about was Jake in the Detention Center, together with the other “non-patriots.”
Scowling at the tank’s extra-wide treads, Stan wondered if maybe it was good for Jake to strew in the Detention Center for a while. Maybe he’d been too easy on the boy. Let Jake know that there were consequences to his actions like protesting the President. He didn’t want to leave Jake there, but what harm would there be for a few months?
Stan pried off the coffee’s plastic cover and enjoyed the aroma as it steamed into the cold desert air. He sipped more, as it had cooled just enough for him to enjoy.
If Jake didn’t care about his education, why should he fret so much about it? The boy was old enough to vote, to drink beer and go away to school. Maybe this was the best thing for him. People didn’t treasure what came too easily. Jake had worked a half-time summer job, but otherwise, Stan had paid for the tuition.
Stan drained the cup. Who was he trying to kid? Himself, it seemed like. The boy was in trouble. Jake might never get another shot at a college education. The laws were harsh regarding non-patriotic protesting. The longer he stayed in a Detention Center, the heavier the mark on his record. In the eyes of most, it meant that he lacked friends and family. That equated to a loner who likely didn’t love his country. The police watched such “miscreants” and bosses didn’t have to worry about discrimination suits if they failed to hire anyone with a three-stamp mark.
“I have to get him out of there,” Stan muttered. He went to drink more coffee and discovered the cup was empty. Stan crumbled the Styrofoam in irritation. He almost threw the pieces into the desert. But that would be littering. Instead, he put them in his jacket pocket. He would throw away the cup later on base.
Frowning, Stan eyed the beast, the Behemoth tank. It was a marvel all right, and this might be the last time he had to deal with it. His chest—
Stan rubbed his chest, feeling a sore spot. He didn’t want to leave. The entire operational idea behind the Behemoth—
Stan’s lips peeled back. He remembered Alaska and their M1A2 tanks. They had been good tanks, if too old. The Chinese tri-turreted tanks had played havoc with them. Better armor, better guns, better shells—the enemy had outclassed them in every category.
The Behemoth was supposed to be the great surprise. It was supposed to be the equalizer, the antidote to enemy numbers. China had far more and better quality tanks. What did that leave America? Not much chance of winning, had been Stan’s answer.
The tri-turreted tank—the T-66—weighed one hundred tons. The Behemoth was three hundred tons. Stan rubbed his hands. The specs on these things: they told their own story.
It was fifteen by six by four and mounted 260cm of armor. It had nine auto-cannons, seven auto-machine guns and an onboard radar and AI to track enemy missiles and shells. Given enough flight time, the Behemoth could knock down incoming missiles and most shells. Whatever came close had to survive the forty beehives launchers. Those fired tungsten flechettes, a spray of shotgun-like metal that often knocked down or deflected an enemy projectile enough to skew its impact against the heavy armor. It was the super-thick armor and the sheer mass of beehives that was supposed to make the Behemoth more than a big, expensive target.
The special power plant in the Behemoth was also huge. It had to be to move all that mass. The three- hundred ton machine had magnetically balanced hydraulic suspension and a weapon unlike anything else in the world. Instead of shells, the Behemoth fired a force cannon. Some people called it a rail gun. It was high-tech and it was amazing—if everything worked like it was supposed to. The force cannon needed the Behemoth’s mighty engine to juice it, and the new batteries that stored power for extended shooting.
The Chinese had many fancy weapons, but Stan bet the Chinese didn’t have anything like the Behemoth. Stan crunched over gravel and he slapped the treads. It would have been interesting fighting in the Behemoth.
It would be good to get some real payback against the Chinese tankers. There were too many nightmares that included Stan’s friends murdered once again by the T-66 tri-turreted tank.
“You’re too old for this,” Stan muttered to himself. “Jake did you a favor getting you out of this before the Big One.”
Then why did he feel so terrible, as if he was running out on his friends and his country during everyone’s darkest hour?
“Professor!” Jose shouted from the Humvee.
“What’s wrong?” Stan shouted back.
Jose stuck his head out of a window. “The colonel just radioed. He wants you back at base and he wants you there now.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“Not a clue, Professor. What do you want to do?”
Stan rubbed the giant tread. What did Wilson want now? He sighed, wanting to make the stickler wait, but not wanting to cause problems for Jose and Ted, their young driver.
“Sure!” Stan shouted. “Radio Wilson that we’re on our way in.”
Forty-five minutes later, Stan sat in Colonel Wilson’s tidy office. From behind his desk, the colonel watched him, with his index fingers tapping his chin.
“We were fixing our tank,” Stan said. Wilson hadn’t asked where he’d been or why he had been late. The colonel had simply pointed at the chair as Stan entered.
Stan decided to wait it out. He was through with Wilson anyway. Not that he planned to tell him any more of his faults. Once was enough.
Wilson breathed deeply through his nostrils. As if annoyed, he turned his computer screen so it faced Stan.
Stan raised an eyebrow. Wilson breathed deeply again, saying nothing. Bending closer, Stan began to read the print on the screen. In a moment, it felt as if his blood froze. It was hard to focus on the words.
“Do you understand the message’s significance?” Wilson asked in a brittle tone.
“The Army can’t refuse my resignation,” Stan said.
Wilson snorted. “You’re with us for the duration, Captain. You will remain under my command until either you or I die.”
“But—”
“Dismissed,” Wilson said.
Stan stared at him.
“You are dismissed,” the colonel said. “You do remember military discipline, I hope.”
Nodding, Stan stood. He could fight this, he supposed. Yet how would that help Jake? The President had signed an order. The experimental unit had been activated and cancelled all leaves of absence, resignations—the unit was headed for California, for active duty.
Why would they send us there? The big tanks were hard to move. There were only a few railcars big enough to carry the Behemoths and almost no bridges. If the railroad over the mountains were destroyed, why, that would strand the Behemoths in California. They had snorkel gear so the giant tank could ford or cruise underwater through the largest rivers.
“John Glen will have to wait to enjoy the pleasure of your company,” Wilson said.
Stan swallowed a retort. It was like swallowing a big pill that refused to go down. He had to work at it, his
