Chapter 107: (Vuxten) (1/2)
Lieutenant General Trucker was in the zone.
It was a state particular to tankers, although Trucker had heard fighter jocks came close, where everything was just perfect, hooked together, into one whole. Target, tank, main gun, crew, man and machine, the howling of the engines, the clatter of the tracks, his own crew meshed perfectly with the machine.
But Trucker took it further. The entire battlefield existed in a weird spot in his brain, a quirk of genetics, upbringing, experiences, and just... something. The battlefield in his head was clearer and more up to date than the one in the gestalt to the point that the gestalt had long ago learned to use Trucker's internal imagery for error checking. Beyond the battlefield he could feel the rest of his unit's tanks, reached out to the crews of the tanks and drove them further than they or the tanks ever considered going.
A cursory examination of Trucker's record showed that while he may have been defeated he had never been beaten and it was the most expensive tanks the enemy had ever tried to buy. One particular battle Trucker had been driven from the field as a Company Commander but inflicted so much damage on the enemy that pushed him out of the sector that the enemy government had surrendered even as the smoke cleared from that battle.
An interesting note in his file was that he had tried out for BOLO commander, applied to be a member of the Dinochrome Brigade.
The results of that were simply listed: INCOMPATIBILITY with no other records to be found anywhere in Space Force records.
If you asked a BOLO they simply refused to answer.
Not that they had any problem working with him, they just didn't want him connected in.
If one had talked to Trucker about 'the Zone' and to a BOLO or BOLO commander about 'battle reflex mode' you'd notice they spoke in much the same way.
Only Trucker's eyes glowed with a particular fire.
FIRE!
SHOT OUT!
HIT! TANGO DOWN!
rang through the tank's hull as the air system tried its best to filter out the raw smell of modern combat, of molten metal, scorched synthetics, human sweat, burning plastics, overheated molycirc, and green mantid chitin flake.
Trucker stood in the turret hatch, hands on the 20mm quad barrel autocannon, raking it across airborne targets. His cybernetic eyes were open, the linkage to his optic nerve working, but his brain was running the entire battlefield.
”Bravo six niner alpha, adjust heading two degrees port, you're getting close to delta's firing arc,” Trucker snapped, raking his weapon across another 'crawler'. ”Delta one six eight romeo, switch to APERS and shotgun those airborne units out from in front of one one one.”
He didn't consciously hear the 'rogers' 'affirmatives' and the sometimes jokingly 'aye-aye, sir' coming back at him, even though he would have known in a nano-second if someone had given any answer.
Part of his brain was a few miles ahead of his tanks, as if the battle had been advanced by several minutes.
”Sigma six six two niner actual, drop back behind golf, you're running too hot on your slush, lettum leapfrog and go to energy weapon point defense,” Trucker snapped. ”Watch your starboard we got nests coming up, 100 mikes, up high.”
FIRE!
SHOT OUT!
HIT! TANGO DOWN!
There was nothing on the planet that could stop his tanks unless he let it. Not yet anyway. He intended of carving a road of churned up mud and plant compacted down into concrete behind him all the way to the Forward Operations Base.
”All units, watch your heat, air's full of dandelion thermal spikes,” he warned.
”General Trucker, sir?” The voice was Telkan, that odd high register they used. It read ”VUXTEN 1st MARINE (TELKAN)” on his datalink retinal display.
”Trucker here, go ahead, Vuxten,” Trucker said, not bothering to seperate channels. ”Get on those nests in the trees, Delta Six Two Two Actual, use napalm!”
TARGET!
FIRE!
SHOT OUT!
HIT! TANGO DOWN!
”I can have my men mount the tanks, use our flamers to burn off the seed and spore coating,” the voice said.
”Clear it with... DAMMIT CARTWRIGHT! I SAID NAPALM NOT ANTIARMOR! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER OR GET TO THE MEDICS AND GET THAT HEAD WOUND TAKEN CARE OF! ... your CO and get on it,” Trucker said. He made a circular motion with his hand, spitting over the side of his tank, and tossed the assignments of which Telkan Marine to go to which tank in the safest and fastest patter. ”ALL PEARHEAD BOYS, INCOMING CRAYON EATING LITTLE BROTHER! They'll be using fire, don't lose your gripping hand clench.”
Trucker had already ran the numbers. Burning off the coating would raise the heat for approximately six seconds but after that the heat would drop off geometrically.
”Vuxten,” Trucker snapped. A bug swooped by and Trucker pegged it square with tobacco juice, sending it tumbling to the ground.
”General, sir?” The Telkan sounded nervous.
”Signal when you're in position and don't fall into the tracks, that would be a bad thing, Marine,” Trucker said. He was slammed against the side of the hatch as a massive caterpillar rushed out of a broken Precursor tank and his own tank, Cry Little Sister, just ran it over in a shower of gore.
Trucker spotted something on the ridgeline almost twenty miles away, a dot of color that didn't belong. He squinted and brought in with 20X zoom. He blinked twice, putting a marker on it.
”BOLO Domitus, I want two main gun rounds on that point I just marked on ridgeline Zulu,” Trucker snapped.
BOLO Domitus raked the ridge with sensors as he pulled his barrel into play. He couldn't detect anything but that moss and sheer rock but both he and his Commander, Captain Edgemont, didn't bother to say anything.
The Hellbore fired and the entire ridge exploded as the 120kt blast liquified the giant flatworms on thousands of tiny legs that were just starting to pour over the edge of the ridge and into the jungle below. Domitus/Edgemont fired again into the fireball.
Domitus computed that nearly 200 of the worms had been killed outright.
”GO TO RAPID FIRE, DOM!” Trucker yelled. ”SLAG THE RIDGE!”
Domitus/Edgemont started firing, targeting the ridge from one side to the other.
A fat winged creature slammed itself against 3/68-132's battlescreen, exploding into smokey liquid that showered through the tank's screen and over the side of the tank itself. The battlescreen winked out. The number of attacking insects multiplied as if the BOLO's main gun had driven them into a frenzy and Trucker dropped all pretense of proper com protocol, his mouth and datalink trying to keep up with his brain.
The BATTACNET squealed as Trucker's brain hit it like he'd driven his tank into it.
”Gin and Juice, get on Martian Lover's flank, his starboard screen went down. All units, watch for fat aunt bugs,” Trucker snapped. ”Vuxten!”
”Yes, sir?” the Telkan asked.
”Get three men on Martian Lover, clear the starboard NEVERLAND! BLOW YOUR PORT THREE TRACK YOU GOT JUICE ON IT MELTING YOUR RUNNING GEAR! battle-screen projectors with flame throwers ASAP,” Trucker said, whipping the gun around and taking a narrow squirt of acid on the hatch instead of across the face. Burning droplets landed on his arm, sizzling through the active camouflage but not even marring his warsteel arm. He swapped out the ball rounds for APERS canister shells with 25% size quad loaded bb's.
”Yes, sir!' Vuxten answered.
Trucker whipped back around, opening up with his quadbarrel, sweeping a swarm of beers out of the air with the pellets.
”Sixteen Tons, alter course three degrees starboard, crush those speedbumps. All forward units, go to rapid fire, high-ex, pave that road!” Trucker snapped.
”Trucker, Nodra'ak here,” came a priority com. Even with the tank's massive com-array it was full of squealing and static.
”TARGET, Smokey, go ahead. LIBERTY BELL GET ON THAT DAMN DRAGON!” Trucker bellowed.
FIRE!
SHOT OUT!
TANGO DOWN!
General Nodra'ak didn't take offense to Trucker's language, tone, or even his nickname. He could hear the roar of the battle through Trucker's link.
For a moment Nodra'ak was jealous of the big burly human.
”Status?” Nodra'ak asked.
”Still rolling, Smokey, they still hatin',” Trucker answered back. He cut loose with the cannon again, slashing at the trees where he'd seen something and watching gore and shreds of masticated plastic shower out of the treetops. ”Two klicks out.”
”Keep on rolling, Trucker,” Nodra'ak said and switched channels.
Trucker saw/felt Vuxten's Telkan Marines jumping from tank to tank like frogs across lilypads, each time one or two staying behind to prepare to start playing their wrist mounted flamethrowers over the massive radiators and heat sinks.
Finally, .1 seconds before Trucker estimated they'd be ready, the Telkan Marine signalled he was ready.
”ALL UNITS! CEASE FIRE, TEN SECONDS! RUN 'EM DOWN!” Trucker roared over the comlink. He knew some of his men would be near deaf. ”VUX, FLAME OUT!”
The tanks immediately ceased fire, even the automated point defense systems stopping. As one the Telkans started bathing the heat dissipation systems with flame, quickly switching to the next. Trucker noticed the practiced way they carried it out and notched up the Telkan's experience. Small greenies jumped off the Telkan's armor, deploying microflamers as they rushed the smaller heat sinks to clear them off.
Fifteen seconds and it was done. The ones on Martian Lover's side finished the clearing the battlescreen projectors. ”ALL UNITS, GET READY!”
He could feel the jungle around him flex and swell. He gave a 360, marking targets as quickly as he spotted them.
”HOOOOOLD!” Trucker said, still holding down the pedal to rotate his command seat he was standing on.
The jungle inhaled. Trucker kept marking targets, assigning the Telkan's without thinking about it.