The Tank

The Tank, Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

            The tank arrived along the Interstate. Immobilized cars, rusting, their doors and hubcaps missing, choked the highway, abandoned where they ran out of gas. No civilian vehicle could possibly have navigated the haphazard roadblock they created. But they didn’t stop the tank.

        It was an American M1A2 Abrams, one of the most advanced killing machines ever created by man. Over sixty-five tons, capable of reaching almost 70 mph, encased in advanced chobham armor which was the equivalent of 5-foot thick steel, this monstrous machine moved slowly and relentlessly down the center of the highway, simply smashing the derelict cars out of its way. From afar it was a terrifying sight.

        Up close, though, you could see the dents and dings of heavy combat. Most, if not all, of the tank’s reactive armor had already blown off, leaving its caterpillar treads scorched black. An eclectic mix of camping gear and military equipment was strapped to the rear of the turret, giving the Abrams the appearance of an Oaky Model-T from the Grapes of Wrath. Someone had spray painted the words BULLET MAGNET on its side hull armor.

          Peering out of the turret’s commander’s Hatch was Lacey, a female German Shepherd. Tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, Lacey gave the bizarre impression that she was the one driving.

        Lounging atop the stowage gear strapped to the rear turret was Cagney, a Marine M.P. and Lacey’s handler. She had stripped off her marine camouflage shirt, lying back on it like a beach blanket, catching rays, her sports bra like a bikini top.

        Beside her, sitting up, ever alert, was Cordite, an Army Sergeant and the tank’s real commander. In his early thirties, he was the old man of the group. Somehow he’d managed to keep most of his crew alive through some of the most horrific combat man has ever experienced. It was a remarkable achievement but also one with a heavy price. You could see from his eyes that he could be one battle away from finally breaking under the pressure. But it wasn’t him that broke, it was the tank. Its engine sputtered and its exhaust coughed. Then it went dead.

        Maverik, a good-looking African-American man, popped the driver’s hatch. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but you could tell they sparkled with confidence. He wore a flight jacket instead of a tanker uniform. “Sorry, boss,” he lamented, “but that’s all she wrote.”

        Cagney sat up, stretched, and slid off the Abrams. “C’mon, Lacey, looks like we’re walking.”

        The dog, excited to hear its name, barked and bounded up out of the turret.

        But Cordite refused to give up. “We’re not abandoning Bullet Magnet.”

        Cagney slipped on her shirt and checked her marine-issue .45 automatic. “Seems to me the tank just abandoned us.”

        “We’ve run out of gas before.”

        “She don’t run on gas, she runs on ethanol.” The words were spoken by Ratchet, the group’s ace mechanic. Born to a different family in a different neighborhood, she probably would have been an engineer working at Hughes or Boeing. Lucky for her, she was poor and criminal and her only real choice was the army…lucky because Hughes and Boeing were among the first factories targeted by the nukes. “And if we had a still we could run her on grass.”

        “If we had a still we’d all be drunk,” Cordite countered.

        “And if we had grass we’d all be high,” interrupted Tex, the tank’s gunner. Tex was the only surviving original crew member other than Cordite. He wasn’t from Texas; he was from San Diego. His parents were from Tijuana.

        “Speak for yourself, marijuana impairs vision,” insisted Maverik.

        “So what?”

        “Gotta see 20-20 to fly a Raptor.”

        Tex laughed. “World’s out of juice, brother. You’ll never fly again. No one will.”

        “So what? You’re a gunner. Don’t you think it would help to be able to see?”

        “Don’t gotta. Advanced optics and nightvision see for me.” Tex affectionately patted the tank’s main gun barrel.

        Cordite put an end to the back and forth. “Not anymore. Shut her down to preserve battery power.”

        “Already done,” assured Maverik.

        Cordite slid off the tank and unfolded a crumpled map. He peered at it with a grimace.

        Cagney frowned.  “Seriously, what’s the big deal? So we lost our ride, we can walk.”

        “Without Bullet Magnet we’re nothing.”

        “We got guns, we got each other –“

        “We’re nothing,” Cordite insisted. And his expression told her that he was in no mood for argument. So Cagney bit her tongue and let Cordite concentrate. “There’s a prison a couple clicks to the northwest,” he reported. “Maybe we’ll find some cooking oil.”

        Ratchet groaned. “Give me a break, I already converted this bitch to run on ethanol. Now you want me to convert her to bio-diesel?”

         “You’re the right man for the job.” Cordite began to fold up the map. “Lock her up tight, we don’t want anyone stripping her while we’re gone.”