“Wow. Holy crap, that was insane,” Burke muttered, pulling off his CVC helmet. Sweat plastered his hair to his skull.
“That was… educational,” Torres corrected. He watched the Ripsaws return to their staging point, moving in perfect formation despite the chaos. Those machines had performed well, but the drone swarms had still broken through.
It was time to learn from this controlled disaster and figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what they could do better.
The after-action review took place in the same converted hangar, but the atmosphere was different. Crews sat straighter, paying closer attention. There was nothing like live rounds and explosions to focus the mind.
“You are dead,” Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham announced without preamble, addressing the assembled companies. “If this were real combat — we just lost forty percent of the battalion. Why?”
This time, no one rushed to answer. The live-fire exercise had stripped away comfortable assumptions.
“Because you still think this is a game,” Cunningham continued. “When artillery falls, when tracers fly, when drones swarm — you hesitate. You think. You die.”
He clicked through footage from the exercise. Tanks bunched up under fire. Crews slowed to react to the drone threat. Perfect kill zones had been created by predictable movement.
“The Ripsaws performed well,” Major Lathrop added. “They identified threats, engaged targets, maintained precision under fire. But look here—” He highlighted a moment where an M5 sat motionless while its controlling crew dealt with their own crisis. “When humans panic, machines become expensive targets.”
Warrant Officer Marrick stood. “Sir, the data shows the autonomous systems achieved—”
“That’s great. But machines don’t bleed,” Cunningham cut him off. “Your machines killed targets, Chief. But they couldn’t adapt when the enemy changed its tactics. They failed to recognize the trap until too late.”
Torres found himself nodding. The Ripsaws had performed their programmed tasks perfectly. But war wasn’t a program.
“Sergeant Torres,” Cunningham pointed at him. “Your crew. What did you learn?”
Torres stood slowly. “That we need to train harder, sir. The noise, the chaos — it got to us. My loader froze up when things got loud. My driver overcorrected under fire. We survived on instinct, not skill.”
“Honest assessment. Continue.”
“The integration with the Ripsaws is still clunky. When our tank is fighting for survival, we can’t manage the unmanned systems effectively. It’s like trying to play piano while drowning.”
There were a few chuckles from the crowd. Gallows humor ruled among tankers.
“So what do you propose?” asked Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham.
“Repetition under stress, sir. Run this exercise daily if we have to. Live rounds, explosions, maximum chaos. Do it until managing Ripsaws under fire becomes muscle memory, not conscious thought.”
“And the fear?” Lathrop’s eyes narrowed. “When real missiles fly, when your soldiers begin to die?”
Torres thought of the stories he’d heard the veterans of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria — of their tanks getting nailed by Iranian-provided explosively-formed penetrators during the heights of the Iraq War. The discovery that EFPs penetrated the armor of main battle tanks had been shocking.
“Sir, fear keeps you sharp. It’s a good motivator. But I’ve always believed it’s training that keeps you alive. I’d say we need more of the latter to manage the fear,” Torres explained.
Cunningham nodded slowly. “That’s an astute answer, Sergeant. I agree. Tomorrow, we run this again. And again after that until the battalion stops thinking and starts fighting. This has to be second nature, people. Action, reaction.”
Major Lathrop pulled up a slide for everyone to chew on. It showed the casualty projections for what a real conflict in the Suwałki Gap might look like. The numbers were sobering.
Cunningham resumed speaking. “In two weeks, we begin Steel Forge — a combined arms exercise with the entire division as well as our Dutch, Polish, and German NATO partners. The exercise will include attack helicopters, fighters, drones, artillery, and rocket artillery. Why? Because we train as we fight, and we fight as we train. We do this so when the balloon goes up — nothing changes. It’s muscle memory. Act, react — without hesitation.”
Cunningham paused, letting that sink in.
“I know some of you think this is extreme — that I’m pushing our battalion too hard, risking too much in training.” His voice hardened. “You all remember how the Ukraine War played out — suicide drones and World War I — style trench warfare? That’s what happens when you lose the ability to maneuver, when a force gets drawn into an urban fight inside of villages and cities. It bogs you down; it traps you into a war of attrition instead of a war of maneuver. We are tankers. Maneuver warfare is in our DNA. It’s how we fight. The wars of tomorrow will be fought with everything we practiced today — drones, AI, electronic warfare, and violence of machines at the speed of AI.”
Torres found himself nodding along. It was cold, but it was the truth. He smiled when he saw Captain Morrison, his company commander, step forward. “Sir, Alpha Company is ready for the challenge. We’ll train until it’s second nature.”
“Good. Because if China moves on Taiwan, if Russia moves here” — Cunningham gestured toward the east — “there will be no learning curve. You will fight with what you know, or you will die learning.”
The briefing continued, but Torres found his mind drifting to his crew. Munoz especially — the kid had talent, but Torres was concerned he might freeze under pressure. They’d need focused drills, stress inoculation.
Maybe I’ll partner him with Burke more, he thought. Let the steady calm of our gunner rub off on him.
After dismissal, Torres gathered his platoon. “Listen up. What happened today was a wake-up call. We got our bells rung because we weren’t ready for this kind of chaos.” He looked at each of his soldiers. “That changes now. Starting tomorrow, we train under maximum stress. If you can’t handle the training, you’re going to struggle when it’s real.”
“Sergeant” — Munoz raised a hand tentatively — “the explosions, the tracers — it felt real out there.”
“Good. That’s the point.” Torres softened slightly. “Look, I know today was rough. But every mistake we make here is one we won’t make when lives are on the line. Real combat is worse — no reset button, no second chances. We train hard so we can fight easy.”
He turned to Warrant Officer Marrick, who’d joined their huddle. “Sir, we need to work on the Ripsaw integration. That drone swarm hit us hard.”
“Agreed. I’ll have my guys work on drone detection and interception. That won’t happen again.”
“Perfect.” Torres addressed the group again. “One more thing. What I said in there about not having do-overs? I meant it. We’re in the business of making the other guy die for his country. That’s an ugly truth, but it’s our truth. The better we get at our job, the more of us come home. Questions?”
None came. They understood the stakes.
“All right. Recovery operations in thirty minutes. Make sure your track is squared away — we roll again at 0700 tomorrow.”