Chapter 302.5 (2/2)
A'armo'o tamped down his outrage.
”Your fans have bad blade angles, your fan shafts are too thin and made of substandard material. Your armor is too thin, the laminate layering is crap to the point you have micro-bubbles,” Trucker kept highlighting every part. ”Your engines already have metal fatigue, vibration crystalization of your low grade battlesteel. Your weapons are suffering already and your ammunition is 20% inert.”
A'armo'o looked at the wireframe. He could see little images circling each line that came from a red part. He went to point at one, touching it, and the tiny picture expanded to show an image of one of his tank's armor at high magnification.
He could see the striation, see the tiny bubbles between two layers of the laminate as well as cracks.
His implant translated the Terran writing.
Vibration induced metal fatigue cracking. Age related bubbling. Poor ablation quality. Superconductor breakdown in the thermal protection layer. Radiation seepage through the protective layer.
Recommendation: Total armor replacement.
He touched the window of the main plasma cannon.
Damaged compression chamber, damaged loader, damaged feeder, damaged battle rotation mechanism, heat pitting on the interior of the barrels.
Recommendation: Total replacement.
He went through the notes silently, watching as more notes appeared. Inadequate computer systems. Inadequate electronic warfare systems. Substandard battlescreen projectors. Missing redundant control systems.
He stared at the bottom.
ESTIMATED TIME TO REFIT: 9 Hours
A'armo'o looked up at Trucker. ”I am ashamed.”
”You held them for days with those tanks, that equipment. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Trucker said, shrugging and spitting into the bottle. ”You lost over two-thirds of your forces, but you're facing clankers, and they don't pay attention to casualties and press for victory.”
”What do you suggest, human Trucker?” A'armo'o asked.
Trucker smiled but A'armo'o felt too tired to flinch away. ”How about we tell the mechanics to open the TC hatch and replace everything else?”
It took A'armo'o a moment to parse what the burly human meant.
”That is amusing,” A'armo'o stated. ”A nice way to say my tanks must be replaced.”
”I've had tanks replaced. Cry Little Sister out there was replaced a year ago after we took a barrel bull hit,” Trucker shrugged. ”Had a tank completely blown out from under me back during the Mar-gite War. There's no shame if you aren't wasting the lives.”
A'armo'o shuddered. ”Over half the population is dead.”
”Almost half the population is alive thanks to your men,” Trucker countered. He rubbed his face, his palm making a rasping sound against the bristles on his chin. ”You took to the field with poor training, poor equipment, little more than a willingness to do what had to be done. Not many other species I've met could do better.”
”Oh,” A'armo'o could sense the truth in the human's words. He decided to change the subject, as praise from the huge lemur disturbed him. ”Do you not worry about refitting my vehicles and arming my men?”
Trucker shrugged. ”A little. I worry it might give your men delusions of grandeur and think you can take on a Matthias Main Battle Tank or a Treana'ad M'Tolk Assault Armored Vehicle. No offense, but infantry can pop your tanks like bubbles. I'm not worried about during the fight, the fight's going to be nasty. I worry about afterwards.”
A'armo'o nodded. ”I understand. I have seen your tanks and realize that you could just crush us beneath your treads.”
”But I don't want to,” Trucker said, then spit into his bottle.
”My people are at war with yours,” A'armo'o broached the subject a little more bluntly than he had intended to.
”And the Precursors don't care. They'll happily kill us both and it looks like we've got Type-III ones coming in soon,” Trucker said. He looked over at the big insect. ”General, I'm going to go outside with A'armo'o, get some tanker time to talk to him.”
”If I need you I will have my man ping you,” the large insect in charge said. He turned back to one of the gray skinned reptiles. ”I realize that you are no Tik-Tak, but so far you have performed admirably.”
”Thank you, General,” the reptile answered as Trucker and A'armo'o left the half-buried cargo container. When he got outside Trucker heaved a sigh of relief.
”The TOC always makes me feel claustrophobic,” he chuckled.
A'armo'o frowned. ”But you are a tanker.”
”Yeah, weird, huh?” Trucker grinned, spitting on the ground. He looked at A'armo'o. ”I've seen what beings like your men can do with proper equipment, with leadership and a warplan that doesn't just waste you in unsupported frontal attacks. I've seen your bravery. General Ekret and Major Na'atrek are two men I want to have by my side in a fight.”
”I had thought Old Iron Feathers was dead,” A'armo'o said. ”I worked with him a long time ago. Fast attack air mobile power armor if I recall.”
Trucker nodded. ”He and his remaining men do SAR now. Saved me after the Second Battle of Telkan.”
”And Ekret? He was an Armor Most High, correct? Much like myself,” A'armo'o said.
Trucker nodded. ”He's in charge of First Recon Division. Brave man, he and his men are skilled.”
”He took part in the battles on Telkan?” A'armo'o asked.
Trucker nodded, spitting tobacco juice on the ground. ”Yup. It got bad during the second battle, but Ekret and his men fought the whole time. Those recon tanks made all the difference.”
”Are they both here?” A'armo'o asked.
Trucker nodded. ”Ekret and I usually work hand in hand. I'm more of a face to face slambang, he's a slasher. As for Iron Feathers, well, he's with 13th Evac Hospital and I try to avoid him if you know what I mean.”
A'armo'o found himself chuckling at that.
”We've got some time. The General says eighteen hours he means eighteen hours. Get some food in you, get some rest, and we'll have ourselves a bit of a klikitik so we can get you and your officers up top speed.”
”Klikitik?” he asked, surprised his implant hadn't translated the word.
”Sorry. Treana'ad slang, means have us a quick informal meeting where everyone speaks their mind,” Trucker said. ”You know soldiers, we pick up slang from all over.”
A'armo'o nodded, instructing his implant on the meaning of the word.
”Um, listen, we found out there's a problem with your troop's normal rations,” Trucker said.
”The drugs?” A'armo'o asked.
Trucker nodded. ”Your own government is drugging you guys pretty hard. How long have you known?:
”Two years ago, against the Prescursors, we were running mass reclaimation for rations, everyone got sick,” A'armo'o said. He shook his head. ”Unfortunately, we're all back on them again.”
Trucker nodded. ”Confederate medical is trying to come up with something to let you detox without going through nasty withdrawls. Right now, I'd advise leaving your men on it.”
A'armo'o just nodded. Something about the big lemur calmed him. Even the sharp criticism of A'armo'o's tanks seemed more like a statement of fact than an insult.
”I know your doctrine,” Trucker started.
”How?” A'armo'o asked.
Trucker tapped his implant as he spit. ”Read your books. Like I was saying, I know your doctrine. You're supposed to get artillery, drone, and close air support, but tell me the reality.”
A'armo'o felt his stomachs clench. ”What is in the doctrine and what actually happens are two different things.”
Trucker nodded. ”Your grav-strikers are worse than useless. Under armored, no battle screens worthwhile for anything but clearing dust out, inadequate weaponry, they don't bring any brrt to the dirt.”
”I don't understand. Brrt to the dirt?” A'armo'o said.
”Brrt. The sound a rapid fire autocannon makes? Slamming shells into the ground,” Trucker clarified.
”Ah. What about you?” A'armo'o asked.
”I can trust the Brrt Boys to hit the enemy even if the enemy is inside my formation without hitting my men,” Trucker said. ”As for artillery, we're down to the centimeter even without smart munitions. The drone warfare guys, they run either master pod systems or throwaway swarms. Either way, I'm covered.”
A'armo'o shook his head. ”I can't imagine that. Artillery often hits our own lines, our drones are knocked down by Precursor electronic warfare, and our strikers rarely get into range to engage the enemy to support us. Even our missiles sometimes lock onto us.”
”Yeah, we won't be using your guys for that then,” Trucker said. He shook his head. ”Let's get you to the mess hall, get some food in you, and after you get some sleep we'll meet back up and put our heads together, figure out how to lock you into the warplan.”
A'armo'o nodded, looking over the field where his men had parked their vehicles. Refit and repair frames had gone up, fabrication systems were putting out parts for his tanks, and ammunition was being produced.
All while he'd been talking to Trucker.
He was suddenly glad that they were on the same side.
Then two words floated up out of his mind that made his blood run cold.
”For now.”