simply go in one side and out the other and wreak havoc on anything they encounter along the way—but they don’t explode. So, the M-72 Straight Arrow, the relatively inexpensive weapon that sounded the death knell of armor, cannot, at present, be used against anything other than the one weapon it was designed to defeat.
“The Straight Arrow is back in production, but I think you’re only going to get a relative few of them for this mission,” Moeller explained. “The intelligence reports we’ve received indicate that there are very few tanks on Diamunde with heavy enough armor to justify their use....” He paused because he didn’t like what he was about to say. “Instead, you’re mostly going to be using other antitank weapons, weapons that aren’t as powerful as the Straight Arrows. When I left Headquarters Marine Corps on Earth to come here, the civilian contractors maufacturing the M-72s were getting orders to build other antiarmor weapons as well. A small supply should arrive in a few days and you’ll begin training with them.”
He checked the time. “Starting in an hour or so, right after evening chow, I’ll begin teaching you about the other types of armor you might run into on Diamunde. Then, beginning tomorrow morning, you’ll start training in the virtual reality simulator that a team from HQMC has been developing over the past couple of weeks.” He shook his head. “That’s when you’ll find out that no matter how vulnerable to infantry weapons tanks are, they are still tough and dangerous opponents.” Actually, when Gunner Moeller left Earth for Thorsfinni’s World, nobody had any idea of what kind of tanks the Marines would face on Diamunde, or what kinds of weapons they’d be given to kill them with.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” Corporal Keto shouted into his helmet radio.
Lance Corporal “Rat” Linsman smacked the back of Claypoole’s helmet. “You need your beauty rest, Sleeping Beauty?” He didn’t bother with the radio, he shouted directly into Claypoole’s ear.
Claypoole jumped, then peered around. “What?” He sounded groggy. After only four hours’ sleep, the company had been given a three-hour orientation on the kinds of weapons they would be using in the VR simulator, then second squad had to wait outside two hours before its turn in the simulator. After two weeks of too little sleep, that wait was taking its toll on the Marines.
“You’ve got a target, sweetheart,” Linsman snarled.
“Azimuth, zero-two-seven,” Keto said calmly, now that he knew his shooter was awake. “Range, two-seven-five-zero. Target, low-rider, sitting. Mark?”
Claypoole shifted the launcher tube on his shoulder and squinted through its eyepiece at the battle-blasted landscape. Red-fringed clouds, reflecting the burning of vehicles and buildings on the ground, drifted low overhead. He noted the compass reading on the left side of the image and scuttled around to point himself in the right direction. Then he checked the range indicator on the right side of the image and looked straight ahead. Something was out there beyond the splintered trees in his field of vision, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He groped for the image magnification tab on the left side of the launcher’s receiver, just forward of his face. Magnification jumped from one-to-one to six-to-one and he saw the target. The low-rider tank was hardly higher than a standing man. It was long, low, and wide, and had sides that sloped shallowly. In outline, it somewhat resembled an upturned serving platter. Its low profile was supposed to make it a more difficult target for direct-fire weapons. The shallow slopes of its sides were supposed to make rockets ricochet off rather than penetrate. Neither of those design factors should protect it from the M-83 Falcon, a fire-and-forget rocket. The shooter locked on a spot on the target, then fired. The rocket would maintain a course to that spot no matter how violently the
“The Straight Arrow is back in production, but I think you’re only going to get a relative few of them for this mission,” Moeller explained. “The intelligence reports we’ve received indicate that there are very few tanks on Diamunde with heavy enough armor to justify their use....” He paused because he didn’t like what he was about to say. “Instead, you’re mostly going to be using other antitank weapons, weapons that aren’t as powerful as the Straight Arrows. When I left Headquarters Marine Corps on Earth to come here, the civilian contractors maufacturing the M-72s were getting orders to build other antiarmor weapons as well. A small supply should arrive in a few days and you’ll begin training with them.”
He checked the time. “Starting in an hour or so, right after evening chow, I’ll begin teaching you about the other types of armor you might run into on Diamunde. Then, beginning tomorrow morning, you’ll start training in the virtual reality simulator that a team from HQMC has been developing over the past couple of weeks.” He shook his head. “That’s when you’ll find out that no matter how vulnerable to infantry weapons tanks are, they are still tough and dangerous opponents.” Actually, when Gunner Moeller left Earth for Thorsfinni’s World, nobody had any idea of what kind of tanks the Marines would face on Diamunde, or what kinds of weapons they’d be given to kill them with.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” Corporal Keto shouted into his helmet radio.
Lance Corporal “Rat” Linsman smacked the back of Claypoole’s helmet. “You need your beauty rest, Sleeping Beauty?” He didn’t bother with the radio, he shouted directly into Claypoole’s ear.
Claypoole jumped, then peered around. “What?” He sounded groggy. After only four hours’ sleep, the company had been given a three-hour orientation on the kinds of weapons they would be using in the VR simulator, then second squad had to wait outside two hours before its turn in the simulator. After two weeks of too little sleep, that wait was taking its toll on the Marines.
“You’ve got a target, sweetheart,” Linsman snarled.
“Azimuth, zero-two-seven,” Keto said calmly, now that he knew his shooter was awake. “Range, two-seven-five-zero. Target, low-rider, sitting. Mark?”
Claypoole shifted the launcher tube on his shoulder and squinted through its eyepiece at the battle-blasted landscape. Red-fringed clouds, reflecting the burning of vehicles and buildings on the ground, drifted low overhead. He noted the compass reading on the left side of the image and scuttled around to point himself in the right direction. Then he checked the range indicator on the right side of the image and looked straight ahead. Something was out there beyond the splintered trees in his field of vision, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He groped for the image magnification tab on the left side of the launcher’s receiver, just forward of his face. Magnification jumped from one-to-one to six-to-one and he saw the target. The low-rider tank was hardly higher than a standing man. It was long, low, and wide, and had sides that sloped shallowly. In outline, it somewhat resembled an upturned serving platter. Its low profile was supposed to make it a more difficult target for direct-fire weapons. The shallow slopes of its sides were supposed to make rockets ricochet off rather than penetrate. Neither of those design factors should protect it from the M-83 Falcon, a fire-and-forget rocket. The shooter locked on a spot on the target, then fired. The rocket would maintain a course to that spot no matter how violently the
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