The targets came swiftly after that, nebulous forms and shapes, slowly refining themselves. Twice, another tank’s rounds struck the chosen targets just before Maxwell’s gunner fired.
“Loader up!” Prizzi shouted. He was already hoarse.
“Stallion Six, this is Charlie. Ammo compartment burning. Passing the stick to my Niner.”
“Roger. Stay in the box. Break. Charlie Niner. Keep your victors tight with Rapier Six’s. Don’t let a seam open up over there.”
“Roger. We’re grinding sprockets.”
“Gunner. Target. Seven hundred.”
“On the way.”
The target exploded. One secondary blast followed. A third eruption raised a wall of flame.
“Good shootin’ this morning, Sergeant Nash,” Maxwell told his gunner.
“Sir, would you watch that fucking sword?”
The tank jumped a small berm and shot across the north-south highway.
“Up!”
“Driver,
An invisible fist punched the turret, knocking Maxwell’s head-gear against steel. “Everybody okay?”
“Roger.”
“Clear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Driver, hold your right track. Let’s get back on course, Specialist Vasquez.”
“Stallion Six, this is Bravo. Green. Lead elements Phase Line Pasadena now. Two big boys down. One cat-kill. Minefield vicinity Checkpoint Rosie.”
“This is Stallion Six. If you’re in it, just keep going. Bull through.”
“Wilco.”
“Stallion Six, this is Saber Six. Status report.”
The brigade commander. Clear as a bell.
“Green. Seven victors down. Lead elements Pasadena. We’re closing on the first line of buildings. Continuing mission.
“Good job, Stallion Six. Give ’em hell. Out.”
“Target!” the gunner shouted.
“
The gunner fired into an antitank position. Or what was left of it. Every visible Jihadi emplacement was attracting attention from multiple tanks.
The artillery had lifted, and the Jihadi obscurants were fading. Now it was peekaboo in the patches left behind.
“Load canister.”
“Canister up.”
“Gunner, clear that street.”
“On the way.”
The round exploded from the gun tube. A torrent cut down a gaggle of Jihadis — some running toward the fight, others fleeing, some just ambling and stunned.
The tank bit into a low earthen barrier.
Sure enough, a missile thunked against the bottom of the hull as the vehicle climbed over the obstacle. Man- portable, judging by the noise. Too light to penetrate.
As the tank came down again, a heavier missile clanged against the turret.
The vehicle kept moving, but Sergeant Nash shouted, “My sights are gone. You’ve got it, sir.”
“Roger. From my position.”
“Prizzi’s down.”
“Any blood?”
“No, sir. He’s crumpled up.”
“Take over as loader.
Maxwell fired the round into a vehicle that looked like an armored pickup with a missile launcher and gunner perched in its bed. The truck had been coming straight at them. Brave, if nothing else, Maxwell thought. He watched the vehicle disintegrate as the center of mass of a thousand metal balls tore into it. The gunner in the bed simply disappeared.
Flames. Smoke. Smoldering metal.
“Driver.
The tank crunched over metal, concrete, and bone, grinding through patches of fire. More light missiles bit into its armor, none penetrating. It sounded like a slow-motion hailstorm.
Approaching an intersection, Maxwell told the driver to slow.
“Crew report.”
“Gunner up. Sir, I think Prizzi’s got a broken neck. He’s—”
“Alive or dead?”
“Sir, I don’t know… I don’t—”
“
“Stallion Six, this is Alpha. We’re four streets in. One Bradley down. Not sure anybody made it out.”
“Roger. Keep pushing.”
At least a dozen Jihadis — more — rushed from an alley and leapt from adjacent doorways. Several carried shoulder-fired missiles.
“Up!” Sergeant Nash shouted. The canister round was loaded.
When Maxwell tried to turn the turret to level the gun on the attackers, it refused to move.
At least one of the missiles had done its job.
He got lucky. The aim was imperfect, but the canister balls that missed flesh and blood punched into masonry, augmenting their effect with chips and splinters The result was red and ugly.
Something kicked the tank in the rump. The engine died. A hint of smoke rose from the vehicle’s bowels.
“This is Stallion Six. I’m a mobility kill. Anybody have me visual?”
No response.
“This is Stallion Six. Alpha is in command. Alpha, how copy?”
“Lima-Charlie. Cav’s on the way, Stallion Six.”
The smoke thickened inside the turret. It smelled of circuits, not fuel. Looking through his thermal, Maxwell saw Jihadis dodging forward in twos and threes. That probably meant there were others he couldn’t see on his six.
“
Maxwell hit the switch to launch his smoke grenades, but nothing happened. Howling curses, he popped his hatch and thrust up behind the heavy machine gun.
“This one’s broke-dick,” the gunner called over the intercom. Referring to the loader’s machine gun.
The turret was porcupined with small penetrators and smudged with blast effects. The bustle racks were torn away or twisted up like pipe cleaners.
“Fight with your carbine,” Maxwell said. Then the intercom died.
With the driver and gunner firing from their hatches, Maxwell opened up with the.50 cal. The bucking bronco. Rounds pinged off the tank, and a missile sizzled by.
“On the roof. Nine o’clock,” Maxwell shouted. But the warning was late, and no one heard. The Jihadi shot Vasquez, the driver. Perfect aim, just below the crewman’s helmet.
Maxwell traversed the.50 cal. and tore apart the roof pediment shielding the gunman. Then he swept the street behind the tank.
