“Man, you ain’t joking, Boone. If you didn’t pucker a little on this course, you weren’t paying attention,” Burke drawled.
They pulled into the assembly area as dawn broke. Maintenance teams swarmed over vehicles, checking for exercise damage. Torres found Staff Sergeant Granger standing beside Two-Three, staring at his tank.
“You OK, Granger?” Torres asked.
“That was intense, Torres. If Assassin Ripsaw Two hadn’t marked that position first…” Granger shook his head. “Those robots saved our bacon tonight.”
It was true. Despite losing one M5, the unmanned vehicles had identified threats faster than human crews could have managed. The integration was working.
“Sergeant Torres!” Lieutenant Novak approached, Captain Morrison and the company executive officer in tow. “Outstanding work tonight.”
“Thank you, sir. The platoon performed well.”
The XO, First Lieutenant Washington, studied him with calculating eyes. “Walk with us, Sergeant First Class.”
They moved away from the vehicles, finding privacy behind a maintenance shelter. Dawn painted the Polish countryside gold, but Torres felt the weight of what was coming.
“I’ll cut to it,” Washington said. “The CO and I have been watching you. Your platoon has the best gunnery scores, highest readiness rates, and now this — flawless execution under pressure.”
“It’s a team effort, sir.”
“Ah don’t be modest,” Captain Morrison interjected. “Your leadership makes the difference. Which is why we need to talk about contingencies.”
Torres felt his stomach tighten. He knew where this was going.
Washington continued, “Listen, if this balloon goes up — and between us, intel says it might — we need depth in our leadership. If something happens to me or the CO, or hell, Novak…”
“You’re the glue holding this platoon together,” Morrison finished. “But we might need you to hold more than that. If the company officers are taken out, are you ready and able to step up? To take command of the company if it comes to that?”
The question hung in the morning air. Torres thought of his crews — Burke and Munoz, finally clicking as a team. Granger, steady as a rock. Delaney, turning his poetry into deadly precision. The kids would become killers if they had too.
“If it comes to it, sir. I’ll do whatever the mission requires.”
“Good. I know you will.” Captain Morrison clapped his shoulder. “I know this sounds morbid, me asking you this. But it’s important for me and the other officers in the company to know which of our NCOs can set up and take charge if things really get ugly. During World War II, tank crews died pretty quickly. Hell, we saw how fast tank crews got chewed up in the Russo-Ukraine War. I just need you to think about it and be ready in case this exercise in Belarus spills over into NATO territory.”
Torres nodded. “I understand, sir. I appreciate the confidence you have in my ability to lead should it come to it. I’ll do what has to be done.”
Morrison smiled. “I like that about you, Torres. You’d make a hell of an officer if you ever decided to put in for your commission. But enough of that. Get your guys some rest. We’ve got recovery operations at 1000, then Major Lathrop wants to review what went right, what went wrong, and what could go better. The battalion plans to run the exercise again tomorrow night.”
“Wow, no rest for the weary.”
Morrison laughed. “There never is, Sergeant. There never is.”
As the officers departed, Torres stood alone, watching the sunrise. Somewhere to the east, past Belarus, Russian and Chinese forces conducted their own exercises. Training their own crews, testing their own integration of man and machine.
The M5 Ripsaws sat in a neat line, battle damage already being repaired by contractors. In a few hours, they’d be ready to fight again. No fatigue. No fear. No doubt.
But they couldn’t hold ground — couldn’t make the choice between legitimate target and war crime. They couldn’t inspire scared kids to be more than they thought possible. That still took people… flawed, tired, magnificent people.
“Sergeant?” Munoz appeared, looking haggard. “Maintenance wants to know about that track tension issue.”
“OK. I’m on my way.” Torres took one last look at the sunrise, then turned back to his work. Because somewhere out there, the next war was waiting. And when it came, it would come at machine speed, with human souls paying the price.
It was time to make sure his people were ready.
Torres sat on his bunk, tablet propped on his knees. The FaceTime connection struggled with the base’s overloaded Wi-Fi, but Maria’s face finally resolved on screen.
“Hey, baby,” she said, and just hearing her voice made his chest tight.
“Hey. Kids asleep?”
“Finally. Carlos fought bedtime for two hours. Kept saying Daddy promised to read him a story.”
Guilt twisted in his stomach. “I did. Lost track of time with the exercise.”
“He’ll live.” Maria’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How are you?”
“Tired. Cold. Missing you.”
“How’s the training going? You guys ready to show the Russians what’s what?”
Torres forced a laugh. “If they’re dumb enough to try something, yeah. Though honestly, I think this is all just saber rattling. No way Moscow wants a real fight with NATO.”
“That’s good. The news makes it sound worse.”
“News always does. If it bleeds, it leads. We’re just here as a deterrent. Wave the flag, show some strength, everyone goes home.” He kept his voice light, confident. No point worrying her with his doubts.
“Speaking of home…” Maria’s expression shifted. “Miguel’s in trouble at school again.”
“Ugh, what now?”
“Cutting classes. Third time this month. Coach called — said if Miguel misses one more class, he’s off the team for the season.”
Torres sat up straighter. “Whoa, hold up, Maria. He’s skipping school?”
“No, just his afternoon classes. He shows up in the morning and for practice after school. He disappears between eleven and three. It’s starting to tank his grades, Ramon.”
Torres sighed audibly in frustration. “OK. Put him on, Maria. I’ll handle this.”
“Ramon—”
“Put him on, Maria,” he said with a bit more heat than he meant to.
She disappeared. He heard footsteps, muffled arguments, then Miguel’s face filled the screen. Even at fourteen, Torres could see the athlete in him — broad shoulders, quick eyes.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going in Poland?”
“Don’t ‘hey, dad’ me, Miguel. You want to explain yourself?”
Miguel’s cheeks flushed as he shrugged. “School’s pointless, dad.”
“Oh really? Pointless? You know what’s pointless? Throwing away a gift most kids would kill for.”
“Oh, come on, dad. It’s just a few classes—”
“No, Miguel, it’s not. We’re talking about your future here.” Torres leaned forward. “You know what your fastball clocked at last week?”
“Eighty-seven,” Miguel answered with genuine pride.
“That’s right. Eighty-seven miles per hour — at fourteen, Miguel. Do you have any idea what that means?”
Miguel shrugged again, but Torres saw interest spark in his son’s eyes.
“It means scouts are already asking about you. It means you could have college paid for. Hell, it means you could go pro if you keep developing. You could land a multimillion-dollar contract, Miguel. But you know what else it means?”