Gas & Blood (Damned of the 2/19th Novella) - Rough Draft Finished

Soviet Scrap Metal

1-68th Arm Bn

What the hell were they doing back.

Timmons chuckled next to me.

"Like that?" He asked.

I just grunted, rolling on my side away from him, pulling out my dick, and pissing in the grass before tucking it away and rolling back onto my stomach.

The tanks rolled downrange. The roads had been cleared of artillery shells, the rest on top of or in between bunkers or out in the Back Forty. There were still MRLS bomblets to watch out for, but they wouldn't matter for shit against the heavy steel tracks of the massive 65 ton Main Battle Tanks.

Fifty tanks rolled by. Then 54th's Bradleys and M113 APC's. Then the Rangers. All heading downrange. Fuel trucks came after the heavy vehicles, and I could tell that they were going to do hot refueling.

If the Soviets were going to keep up, they had to turn around and drive back.

I watched as mechanics swarmed over the tanks in front of us in the dark, working without lights, just their NVG's. I saw them check track wear and tension, then tighten the track on the one in front of us. I also watched as they replaced two of the thick rubber track pads that kept the massive armored vehicles from tearing up pavement and asphalt. The ground pressure from those monsters was enormous and without those thick rubber pads the tracks would tear the shit out of asphalt, destroying roads and parking lots.

All of the tanks were  in blackout drive, just the little tiny lights marking where they were. As I watched they all turned and faced the 1K Zone, barrels pointing East Germany. That was new, because as far as I knew they weren't supposed to do that.

Timmons chuckled, standing up and walking out toward the tanks. I followed.

"Got a guess?" He asked me as we moved through the grass. Aine had checked the area for bomblets and after the EOD guys handled them, declared it clear.

"You're making them run. They're a little slower than the M1, and while they supposedly have better horsepower because they're lighter, and are supposed to be more maneuverable, we've both seen that doesn't matter," I said, following him up to the tank. "They could goddamn Formula-One racers mounting goddamn gauss cannons, hell, they could be fucking Battletech Mad-Cats, and it wouldn't fucking matter, because their crews suck ass."

"And are exhausted," He smiled.

"And that."

The tank commander popped out of his hatch and Timmons looked up at him. "How are your men?"

"They're fit to fight," He said. "I'm rotating drivers borrowed from Three Three Two. The drivers for the 2/67th reactivation."

"Iron Dukes," Timmons nodded. The Colonel looked surprised as Timmons continued. "Open up your packet marked Golf Six Niner Bravo, follow the instructions, Colonel."

The Colonel nodded.

We waited, both of us smoking cigarettes in the dark. After awhile I went over and sat in the Gypsy Wagon, pulling off my helmet, putting on my softcap, and pulling the brim down over my eyes so I could catch some Z's.

I was in the middle of a damn good dream, one without Stillwater, Atlas, the Army, or the fucking CIA, when a tapping woke me up.

"You're gonna wanna see this, Specialist," Timmons grinned.

I checked my watch. It was 0200.

The tanks coming into the opposing Soviet watch-station had all their lights on, and the ZSU's were swivelling. I could hear rotors, and I had to look through the NVG's to see nearly a dozen Apache's about two hundred feet up that slowly flew over Atlas, flashed their lights, then peeled back off to the West.