"We lost it!" Xenia said, a bit of panic in her voice. "The tread's gone!" Her hands using the controls to try to maintain something like control. They skidded, bumped, and bounced for a few seconds before she could bring them to a halt.
"Everyone out!" Sanchez ordered. "Right now!"
They threw their hatches open and scrambled out through them, jumping down onto the Martian soil, not even bothering to grab their M-24s from the holders inside.
"Move towards the hill!" Sanchez said. "Get as far away from this tank as you can! I'll get us some help!"
They began trotting towards the hill, which was three kilometers distant, across a horrifying stretch of open ground upon which they could be gunned down in an instant when the WestHem tanks broke through. Sanchez declared an emergency on the command frequency, explaining that their tank was disabled and they were on foot. One of the other tanks of their company immediately turned around and started heading for them.
It rolled up in a cloud of dust and came to a halt just in front of them. "Climb up and hang on!" it's commander told them. "The WestHem tanks are pushing through the gap right now! They'll be here in seconds!"
Xenia and Zen went up first, pulling themselves onto the body of the tank and then the turret. Xenia laid across it, grasping the twenty millimeter cannon to support herself. Zen went further up, wrapping his hands and legs around the eighty-millimeter gun, his butt resting on solid steel beneath it. Sanchez came up next. With nowhere left to go he climbed to the very top of the turret and grabbed hold of the laser cannon mount. It was very wide, too wide for him to get a good grip on but it would have to do.
"Go!" Sanchez barked on the emergency frequency. "We're on!"
The driver of the tank didn't hesitate. He put the pedal down and they jerked forward, quickly accelerating up to top speed, trying desperately to clear the area.
"Shit," Sanchez muttered in fear as he was bounced up and down from the uneven terrain. His grip started to slip almost immediately. He grasped harder but was unable to bring his hands together to secure himself. He felt himself slipping to the left and tried to right himself by swinging his momentum. It didn't help. His legs pulled him downward and his hands grew further and further apart.
Behind them, six WestHem tanks eased carefully through the gap and then, seeing no opposition directly in front of them, put on the speed. As they came further around they saw the Martian tank that Zen, Xenia, and Sanchez had just abandoned, sitting there motionless, its infrared signature indicating the engine was still running.
"Tank! Eleven o'clock!" burst across their tactical channel from three different voices.
They had to slow down to engage it — at top speed it was difficult if not impossible for a gunner to put his recticle on target. As a unit they slowed to forty kilometers per hour. There was no discussion about who would be taking the shot so all six of them did, all firing both laser cannons within two seconds of each other. The tank before them exploded quite spectacularly, the turret flying off, the body cracking in two and falling into pieces. A celebratory cheer went out over the airwaves.
"There's another one out there!" someone yelled. "Ten o'clock! Moving fast!"
But everyone's laser had been discharged and needed to recharge. It would be about twenty seconds before they could engage it. They gave chase at sixty kilometers per hour while they waited.
"We need to get to the depression!" Sanchez heard Corporal Cleanburn yell over the tactical frequency. "Half a klick, straight ahead. Get us down there and they won't have a shot!"
The driver turned slightly and Sanchez's hands slipped a little bit more from the centrifugal force. He slid backwards a little more, knowing he was about to fall, unable to do anything about it. When they hit a small boulder with the right tread the inevitable happened. The tank jolted upward and he was flung free, his hands ripped from their precarious hold.
He found himself flying through the air, looking at the ground he was about to strike. This is not good, he had time to think before he landed in the rocky soil on his left side. He felt a blow like a sledgehammer on his ribs, felt several of them snapping like twigs. He bounced, spun head over heals, and then came down on a rock directly on his back. He felt another snap back there, a huge flare of pain, but it was not over. He was now spinning and tumbling across the ground, bending and unbending, striking rocks and feeling bones break every time. He went into an extended roll, a few more snap bounces, and finally the one hundred kilometers per hour inertia he had been saddled with was used up. He came to rest on his side, broken, twisted nearly in half, pain shooting through his entire body, but alive and horribly alert.
"Holy fuck! Sarge!" screamed Zen as he saw him fly free, as he saw him go bouncing across the ground behind them. "Stop the fuckin' tank! Sergeant Sanchez just went over!"
"I can't," replied Cleanburn, his voice agonized but determined. "The WestHems are sniffing up our ass right now! I don't even know if we're gonna make it to the depression!"
"Goddammit, Cleanburn, its Sanchez out there!" Xenia yelled at him. She too had witnessed the fall. "We need to get him."
Cleanburn was a part of their company and knew Sanchez well. He had played poker with him, taken bonghits with him, had even been to visit his apartment once. But he didn't stop the tank — he couldn't. "We'll all die if I do that," he said. "I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ, Cleanburn," Zen said, near tears. You can't just leave him out there!"
"Yes he can," a voice groaned. It was weak but they all recognized it as belonging to Sanchez. "I order it. Don't worry about me."
"Sarge," Xenia said. "Can you get under cover? We'll send a hover to come..."
"I'm broke up pretty bad," he interrupted. "Back, both legs, both arms. My suit's leaking in a couple of places and I'm having a hard time breathing."
"Cleanburn, goddammit!" Zen yelled. "Get this fucking tank turned around and let's go get him! Let's bring the whole fucking company over there and fight off any WestHem tanks."
"No," Sanchez said. "Don't even... even think about it. The WestHems are coming. They'll find me out here and take me to their... their aid station."
There seemed to be some logic in this but there also seemed to be some pitfalls. Everyone clung to this the best they could though. In any case, the point was now moot. They were fast approaching the depression and Sanchez was now too far behind them. Even if the company did turn around to fight for him, they wouldn't reach him in time.
"We'll see you later, sarge," Zen told him solemnly. "When this is over."
"Yeah," Xenia echoed. "They'll fix you up and we'll have a drink when you get exchanged."
"Right," Sanchez said, his voice fading now. "When I get exchanged. Free... free Mars."
"Free Mars," they repeated.
The tank dropped down into the depression, putting it out of view of the pursuing WestHem tanks just seconds before their lasers were recharged.
The six tanks that had been following were the mixed survivors of two different battalions, all from different companies. Each had just watched friends and comrades blown to pieces left and right of them during the battle. They had seen the biosuited body of Sanchez come flying off the tank they'd been chasing and could see it now, lying on the ground ahead of them. Every crewmember on these tanks knew the rules of warfare and what those rules dictated they should do when an enemy combatant was injured and helpless on ground that they occupied. But none of them were much in the mood for compassion after the hell they'd just endured.