Soon, they clanked away in reverse as more enemy rounds slammed nearby. A direct hit would take out the tank. The heaviest armor was on the front, it was somewhat thinner on the sides. The rear had a tank’s lightest armor. Just like enemy Marauder tanks, they had composite armor. Theirs was Chobham RH Armor, with depleted uranium strike plates and Kevlar mesh.
In several minutes, the loud booms and shrapnel peppering stopped and the tank no longer shook from nearby impacts.
“Report,” said Stan to the other tankers.
“I can’t see anything without radar except these shells falling on us,” a tank commander said.
Stan acknowledged that. The mountains and trees badly cut down visibility.
“Can you hear that?” asked Jose, who was down below Stan and to his right in the gunner’s seat.
It was roomier in the M1A2 than in just about any tank in existence. There used to be four crewmen when the Abrams first came out. In old German tanks like the Panther, there had been five men inside. Russian tanks used to be so cramped that tankers were only chosen from among shorter men. Stan and Jose had used the extra space in the Abrams to add shells. The usual ammo allotment was kept below in special chambers so the rounds wouldn’t cook off if they were hit. It was dangerous storing extra shells in the main compartment, but Stan had decided to take the risk. He hadn’t been too sanguine about their chances for a quick re-supply of shells once the battle started.
Jose touched a hand to his headphones. He was listening to amplifiers outside the Abrams. He looked up over his shoulder at Stan.
“The Chinese are attacking,” said Jose. “With tanks,” he added.
“What kind of tanks?” Stan asked. “Is anyone reporting that?” There was a telephone attached by a cord outside the tank. It was there for the Militiamen spotters to tell them what they saw.
Jose shrugged. “No one is saying, but I’m sure we’re going to find out soon enough.”
The technicians had forced a cocktail of stimulants down Captain Han’s throat. He was awake and back in his chair, the VR helmet strapped on tight and his twitch gloves ready.
“What happened?” Han whispered. He felt disoriented. With his VR helmet’s visor, he saw the snowy ground and the looming slopes on the road ahead of him. American tracer-rounds already bounced off his armored skin. Behind him, he saw with a backward-viewing camera, crouched naval infantrymen moving out of a wall of smoke. The soldiers wore dinylon body-armor and cradled heavy assault rifles, SPET-tubes and RPGs.
“You’re leading the attack,” a tech informed Han.
Han nodded as orders rattled in his earpiece. He was part of the Battle-Net attacking the American position, with the 160th and 322nd Naval Infantry Battalions and two companies of light drone tanks. The enemy seemed to be ready for them, as the Americans held even after a fierce artillery pounding. It was the reason for the drone tanks, the first vehicle of the pack under Han’s remote control. These days, Chinese battle doctrine called for drone tanks leading overrun assaults. They were suicide-tanks, meant to absorb the worst enemy punishment.
“Please, no more shocks,” Han told the techs in the underground chamber with him.
“You will face a severe shock if your tank is destroyed,” a tech said near his ear. “But we have turned off the skin-strike shock-responder. Too many bullets are bouncing off your armor.”
“No!” shouted Han. “Why are you shocking me for dying, for my tank’s destruction? I’m on a suicide mission. It’s the reason our side is using drones.”
“Concentrate on your battlefield task,” a tech advised, “and do not quibble about drone doctrine.”
Han breathed heavily as he began to fear. He dreaded the idea of receiving another death-shock. With a roar of anguish, he tore off his VR helmet and stood up in the pit. It was disorienting. The two techs at the boards swiveled around in their chairs, one on either side of him. Han’s head and shoulders were higher than the floor. The rest of his body was sunken in the pit.
“I’m finished with this,” said Han.
The shorter tech scowled. “If we must summon the enforcer, tell me now, as it will save time.”
“You mean the muscled lieutenant?” asked Han. The man had spoken to him earlier about obedience. Now the talk made sense.
“Exactly,” the tech said. “Now hurry please, inform us of your decision, as your stalled tank is causing confusion.”
Han swallowed hard, and he pleaded, “I can’t take more of those death-shocks.”
“Complaining is futile,” the taller tech said. “Simply get on with your task, and if you can, stay alive.” The tech turned to a com-board before glancing a last time at Han and raising an eyebrow.
“Stay alive,” Han whispered. He nodded as he shoved the VR helmet onto his head. The Alaskan scene leaped back into view. The sounds of battle played in his earpiece, but not so loudly that he couldn’t hear the battle operator’s comments.
With his twitch-gloves, Han used his cameras to look around. Most of the other tank-drones were ahead of him now. Each tank was a Xing T-29 Marauder, a light tank with an un-turreted 130mm smoothbore gun and two 12.7mm machine guns. A small AI inside the tank fired the weapons in real time. As any online gamer would know, the lag from China to Alaska would make precision firing impossible for Han. He supplied the drone’s strategic guidance.
After moments of assessment, Han shouted, “My tank can’t fire its main gun at the ATGMs at the top of the hills!”
The American teams had just launched TOW2 missiles, taking out one of the Marauders. Now American recoilless rifles opened up from the top of the hill.
In the Mukden pit, Han twitched his gloves like mad. His remote-controlled tank reversed, slewed to the slide, and then roared ahead, racing to a burning Marauder. Shells landed around him as a TOW2 missile whooshed past. His AI fired a flechette beehive defender. It sprayed the air with eraser-sized tungsten balls. The beehive was supposed to take out swaths of infantry. Han had instructed the AI to use it to try to take out the TOW2 missiles.
“You must attack the enemy,” a battle operator said.
“Yes, yes,” panted Han.
He used his position behind the two burning Marauders. He clanked forward, fired and dodged back behind the two wrecks for cover. Why wasn’t their artillery firing smoke shells? He needed covering smoke to help hide him until the last moment.
“You must charge the Americans,” said the battle operator. “You are a suicide vehicle.”
“I will survive,” whispered Han. He absolutely dreaded the death-shock.
For thirty seconds no one talked to him. Han remained behind the burning Marauders. In the pit, he twitched his gloves to keep the techs off his back, but he was only communicating with his Marauder’s AI.
“Captain Han!” a man roared in his ear. “You will advance on the Americans or face court-martial and a firing squad afterward.”
Licking his lips, Han moved his remote-controlled tank out of hiding. Chinese IFVs roared past his drone and raced for the slopes. Attack helicopters swarmed overhead, pouring chaingun-fire down on the Americans.
Heaving a deep sigh, Han revved his engine and roared after the IFVs. If he could stay close enough to them, maybe the enemy would target the infantry carriers instead of his Marauder.
The next few minutes proved to be a cauldron of vicious fighting. The Americans held their positions, dying even as they dealt death. Wyvern and Blowdart missiles, TOW2 anti-tank missiles, grenades, bullets and 155mm artillery shells destroyed choppers, IFVs, Marauders and the naval infantry leaping out of the carriers. The naval infantry fought up the slopes and fired their handheld SPET-missiles at the strongpoints. It was the hardest fighting of the war so far.