“Possible missile team, eleven o’clock,” Burke announced.
“Loader — switch out Sabot. Give me AMP!” Torres snapped.
“Copy,” Munoz replied, already reaching. He ejected the sabot shell and locked in the Advanced Multi-Purpose round. “AMP up!”
“Gunner — send it,” Torres said.
“On the way.”
The 120mm barked, hurling the programmable round downrange. The round detonated mid-air, showering the target’s cover with shrapnel. The thermal signature winked out.
“Good effect,” declared Burke excitedly.
“Good shot! Maintain overwatch,” Torres congratulated, settling back into his seat. “Driver, get us on the move and across the bridge. Assassins Two-Three, and Two-Four, follow behind us.”
Specialist Boone got them across the bridge quickly and safely as the Ripsaws cautiously advanced ahead of them. Torres felt like they were steel wolves being unleashed, searching for targets to kill.
“Contact! BMP, ten o’clock! Five hundred and fifty meters!” The Ripsaw’s sensors had found something. Its 30mm autocannon barked, tracers walking across a concealed position. The remote-controlled target vehicle — dressed up to look like a BMP-3 — shuddered under the impacts.
Torres heard an explosion near his tank.
Close. Too close.
“What the hell was that?” Munoz asked.
“Another Sapper charge,” Boone called from the driver’s position. “It looks like Beast element breached the obstacle line we just cleared.”
“Don’t worry about Bravo Company. Stay focused on our area,” Torres interjected, redirecting their focus.
Tanks all around them advanced deeper into the exercise area. The night erupt in controlled violence. The sound of artillery simulators continued unabated, the noise barely audible inside their armored cocoon. Smoke grenades popped at random locations, obscuring thermal sights. Yet through it all, their robotic Ripsaws prowled ahead, marking targets for the main force to destroy.
“We’ve got problems.” Burke’s voice was tight with concentration. “Assassin Ripsaw Two just went dark.”
Torres checked his display. The blue diamond representing the M5 had turned amber — damaged or destroyed.
“Simulated RPG strike,” Romeo One Alpha reported, frustration bleeding through his professional tone. “Assassin Ripsaw Two is combat ineffective. Transferring sectors to Assassin Ripsaw Three.”
It was a lesson learned the hard way: unmanned didn’t mean invulnerable.
“Boone, watch that crater on your left,” Torres coached as they entered the breach. The kid was holding steady, but breach operations tested every driver. One wrong move meant thrown track or worse.
“I see it, Sergeant. Nice and easy.”
Torres kept his head on a swivel as their tank continued through the course, watching for the inevitable counterattack. In the Russo-Ukraine War, both sides had learned to pre-register artillery on their own obstacles.
“Incoming! Incoming!” someone screamed over the company net.
The world outside their tank exploded.
The sound of artillery simulators bracketed their position. Pyrotechnic charges exploded, throwing rockets, dirt, and debris into the air to rain on them — simulating shrapnel hitting their vehicle. As Torres watched the scene unfold around them through his commander’s independent thermal viewer, he saw Assassin Two-Four slide sideways on some loose soil. It threw a track as a tree branch got caught in the gear teeth, stopping their vehicle.
“Assassin Two-Four’s immobilized,” Staff Sergeant Delaney reported, voice steady despite the chaos. “Continuing to engage.”
“Assassin Two-Three, cover them,” Novak ordered. “Two-Two, with me. We’re pushing through.”
Torres felt pride swell as he listened to Novak take charge with an air of authority and confidence he didn’t have four months ago when he’d first shown up. The lieutenant was growing into the role, making decisions under pressure. “Roger, Assassin Two-One. Assassin Two-Two’s with you.”
They cleared the obstacle belt into hell as more targets appeared.
“Contact front! Multiple vehicles!” Burke’s hands flew over controls. “I count three T-90s, three o’clock, 450 meters. Load Sabot!”
“Copy, load Sabot!” Munoz replied, already reaching. He ejected the AMP shell and locked in the Sabot round. “Sabot up!”
“On the way.”
BOOM!
The 120mm cannon belched flame as it hurled the depleted uranium lawn dart across the four hundred and fifty meters in fractions of a second. Sparks erupted against the armored hull of the T-90 main battle tank. The other tanks were hit in rapid succession as Novak joined the fray.
Downrange, the target vehicles died in a shower of sparks. But four more appeared, their exterior silhouettes giving them away as BTR-90 armored personnel carriers. Then to Torres’s surprise, a trio of target vehicles that appeared to be T-90s emerged from deeper within a nearby copse of trees to their four o’clock position.
“Two-Two, they’re swarming us,” Novak called, his voice tense. “All Assassin elements, action front. Establish base of fire.”
The other platoons of the company spread out in a hasty line formation anchored on Torres and Novak. The tanks found whatever cover the terrain offered while firing at the defenders. This was the critical moment — they had successfully breached into the enemy rear area. It meant they were exposed to more enemy kill zones, but they also had the chance to really wreck the enemies’ day.
“Assassin Ripsaw Three has visual on enemy command post,” Romeo One Alpha announced. “Grid Papa-Romeo-Two-Five-Seven. Requesting permission to engage with Javelin strike.”
“Permission granted,” Captain Morrison replied instantly. “Prosecute and take ’em out!”
Torres watched his display as the remaining M5 locked onto the target. In real combat, its Javelin launcher would send a missile arcing into the night. Here, computers calculated the hit probability and awarded the kill.
“Command post destroyed,” the exercise controller announced. “OPFOR C2 degraded.”
The defensive fire slackened. Without coordination, the remote-controlled vehicles reverted to basic programming — still dangerous, but predictable.
“All Assassin elements, advance!” Captain Morrison commanded. “Objective in sight!”
The company surged forward. Torres caught glimpses of other platoons maneuvering — First on the left, Third swinging wide right. Textbook company team breach and assault.
“Loader, how we doing on ammo?”
“Eight sabot, four AMPs remaining,” Munoz replied promptly. The kid was finding his rhythm, combat stress focusing him now instead of freezing him up.
“Two-Two, infantry in the open, one o’clock,” Novak called.
Torres saw the thermal mannequins representing dismounted infantry. In combat, these would be the enemy’s last reserve, trying to stop the breakthrough.
“Burke, coax. Troops in the open — eight o’clock, two hundred meters!” Torres shouted.
The coaxial machine gun chattered, walking tracers across the target array. The exercise controllers marked them destroyed, one by one.
And then, suddenly, it was over.
“Objective secured,” Morrison announced. “Cease fire, cease fire. ENDEX.”
Torres slumped in his seat, adrenaline crash hitting hard. Around them, the battlefield fell silent except for idling engines and the crackle of burning simulators.
“Nice work, Boone,” Torres praised. “That was textbook driving through that breach, Specialist. Well done!”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” The kid sounded exhausted but proud. “Though I about filled my pants on more than one occasion. That has to be the most realistic tank course I’ve ever seen.”