Lieutenant.”
“Let’s go. Nice and easy.” Plinnikov wanted to make sure he spotted the enemy before they spotted his lone vehicle. He knew it would be impossible to detect moving vehicles until they were fatally close, due to the noise of the artillery preparation.
The vehicle dug itself into the peat of the trail, then gripped and lurched forward. Plinnikov unlashed his assault rifle. He expected to fight with the automatic cannon and the on-board machine gun, but he wanted to be prepared for anything. He stood up behind the shield of his opened turret, weapon at the ready, headset flaps left open so he could hear a bit of the world around him.
The vehicle pivoted into the rutted trail. The rain picked up, slapping Plinnikov, making him squint. Nervously, he ejected a cartridge from his weapon, insuring it was loaded and ready.
“Belonov?”
“Comrade Lieutenant?”
“How well can you see?”
“I can see the trail.”
“If I duck down and start turning the turret, be ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Plinnikov heard the nerves in both of their voices. He was furious about the lack of soldiers to fill out his crew. He wanted all of the fighting power he could get. He wished his lost vehicle was still with him.
The tracks slid and plumed mud high into the air behind the vehicle.
The immense roar of the artillery seemed part of another reality now, clearly divorced from anything that would happen in these woods.
Black vehicle shapes. Thirty meters through the trees.
Plinnikov dropped into the turret, not bothering to close the hatch behind himself. He took control of the turret, forehead pressed against his optics.
“See them? Fire, damn you. Fire.”
The automatic cannon began to recoil.
“There. To the right.”
“I have him.”
“Driver, don’t stop. Go.”
The vehicle pulled level with a small clearing in the forest where two enemy command tracks stood positioned with their drop ramps facing each other. Two light command cars were parked to one side.
A third track that had been hidden from view began to move for the trail.
“Hit the mover, hit the mover.”
The automatic cannon spit several bursts at the track, which stopped in a shower of sparks.
“Driver, front to the enemy.”
Plinnikov swung the turret again.
The enemy fired back with small arms, although one man stood still, helmetless, in amazement, as though he had never in his life expected such a thing to happen.
The automatic cannon and the machine gun raked the sides of the enemy tracks. All good, clean flank shots, punching through the armor. The track that had made a run for the trail burned now. The driver’s hatch popped up, and Plinnikov cut the man across the shoulders with the on-board machine gun.
The man who had stood so long in such amazement slowly raised his hands. Plinnikov turned the machine gun on him.
Plinnikov was afraid he would miss one of the dismounted soldiers, and he left the on-board weaponry to Belonov, standing behind the shield of his hatch with his assault rifle.
Just in time, he saw an enemy soldier kneeling with a small tube on his shoulder. He emptied his entire magazine into the man, just as Belonov brought the machine gun around to catch him as well.
Plinnikov pulled a grenade from his harness, then another. As quickly as his shaking fingers allowed, he primed one and tossed it toward the enemy vehicles, then followed it with the second grenade. He dropped back inside of his vehicle.
The explosions sounded flat, almost inconsequential, after the artillery barrage. Plinnikov realized that his hearing was probably going.
“Sweep the vehicles one more time with the machine gun. Driver. To the rear, ten meters.”
“I can’t see.”
“Just back up, damn it. Now.”
The gears crunched, and the vehicle’s tracks threw mud toward the dead and the dying.
“Driver, halt. Belonov, I’m going out. You cover me.”
He felt as though he would have given anything imaginable to have his
“Let’s go. Nice and easy.” Plinnikov wanted to make sure he spotted the enemy before they spotted his lone vehicle. He knew it would be impossible to detect moving vehicles until they were fatally close, due to the noise of the artillery preparation.
The vehicle dug itself into the peat of the trail, then gripped and lurched forward. Plinnikov unlashed his assault rifle. He expected to fight with the automatic cannon and the on-board machine gun, but he wanted to be prepared for anything. He stood up behind the shield of his opened turret, weapon at the ready, headset flaps left open so he could hear a bit of the world around him.
The vehicle pivoted into the rutted trail. The rain picked up, slapping Plinnikov, making him squint. Nervously, he ejected a cartridge from his weapon, insuring it was loaded and ready.
“Belonov?”
“Comrade Lieutenant?”
“How well can you see?”
“I can see the trail.”
“If I duck down and start turning the turret, be ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Plinnikov heard the nerves in both of their voices. He was furious about the lack of soldiers to fill out his crew. He wanted all of the fighting power he could get. He wished his lost vehicle was still with him.
The tracks slid and plumed mud high into the air behind the vehicle.
The immense roar of the artillery seemed part of another reality now, clearly divorced from anything that would happen in these woods.
Black vehicle shapes. Thirty meters through the trees.
Plinnikov dropped into the turret, not bothering to close the hatch behind himself. He took control of the turret, forehead pressed against his optics.
“See them? Fire, damn you. Fire.”
The automatic cannon began to recoil.
“There. To the right.”
“I have him.”
“Driver, don’t stop. Go.”
The vehicle pulled level with a small clearing in the forest where two enemy command tracks stood positioned with their drop ramps facing each other. Two light command cars were parked to one side.
A third track that had been hidden from view began to move for the trail.
“Hit the mover, hit the mover.”
The automatic cannon spit several bursts at the track, which stopped in a shower of sparks.
“Driver, front to the enemy.”
Plinnikov swung the turret again.
The enemy fired back with small arms, although one man stood still, helmetless, in amazement, as though he had never in his life expected such a thing to happen.
The automatic cannon and the machine gun raked the sides of the enemy tracks. All good, clean flank shots, punching through the armor. The track that had made a run for the trail burned now. The driver’s hatch popped up, and Plinnikov cut the man across the shoulders with the on-board machine gun.
The man who had stood so long in such amazement slowly raised his hands. Plinnikov turned the machine gun on him.
Plinnikov was afraid he would miss one of the dismounted soldiers, and he left the on-board weaponry to Belonov, standing behind the shield of his hatch with his assault rifle.
Just in time, he saw an enemy soldier kneeling with a small tube on his shoulder. He emptied his entire magazine into the man, just as Belonov brought the machine gun around to catch him as well.
Plinnikov pulled a grenade from his harness, then another. As quickly as his shaking fingers allowed, he primed one and tossed it toward the enemy vehicles, then followed it with the second grenade. He dropped back inside of his vehicle.
The explosions sounded flat, almost inconsequential, after the artillery barrage. Plinnikov realized that his hearing was probably going.
“Sweep the vehicles one more time with the machine gun. Driver. To the rear, ten meters.”
“I can’t see.”
“Just back up, damn it. Now.”
The gears crunched, and the vehicle’s tracks threw mud toward the dead and the dying.
“Driver, halt. Belonov, I’m going out. You cover me.”
He felt as though he would have given anything imaginable to have his
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