Chapter 356 (1/2)

”You're fine with using the new 40mm template, Ma'am?” Vuxten asked.

The Division CO nodded, sweat on her face. ”When a thousand year old NCO who's worked in ordnance longer than you've been alive gives you a new template and tells you it'll solve your problem, you use it,” she said. ”If it doesn't work, you can just hot-swap templates back.”

The tank under his hand roared, the heavy duty fans keeping the plenum chambers pressurized enough to keep the tank a good foot off the ground and moving forward at a steady clip.

”All right, ma'am,” Vuxten said. ”Out.”

The CO nodded and her face vanished from the little window.

”471, how's it look?” Vuxten asked.

--good good-- the little green mantid said from his compartment between the shoulders of the armor. --can't believe not think of ammo--

”Yeah. Everyone concentrated on the launcher,” Vuxten said.

There was a pause for a second even though Vuxten could see that his commo system was engaged.

”Everything OK, buddy?” Vuxten asked.

--looking at Precursor clankers-- 471 said. --we have problems--

Vuxten tabbed up stimgum and started chewing on it. ”You don't say.”

--follow pictures will go slow-- 471 said.

”All right,” Vuxten slapped his hand on the cupola and made his visor opaque.

The picture of the gigantic crawler appeared.

--is miner--

Then a picture of the planet's crust with depths and heat and pressure.

--goes here--

A dot down at seventy-thousand feet below the surface. What came next was formula.

--this herd tank gun--

A picture of the plasma cannon popped up, with formula rapidly appearing on it.

”Um, 471, you have completely lost me, buddy,” Vuxten said.

A meme popped up on the Division, then the Corps, then the Army then the Theater social media channel of a little green mantid showing a Telkan a chart full of number and formula with the Telkan going ”Um... Q?” and the next picture of a dozen green mantids face palming.

The greenies thought it was hilarious.

It took someone to search the datanet to find out the formula were nothing more than respiration rates, rates of a Telkan walking, and tooth pressure on stim gum AKA walking and chewing gum at the same time.

Then everyone else found it funny.

--mine = pressure + heat-- 471 said. --more deep more pressure more heat--

”Right,” Vuxten said.

A picture of the Precursor machines popped up again. --mysteronium alloy armor over heat times pressure--

”OK, so they've got armor that handles heat and pressure,” Vuxten said.

471 wanted to bang his head against the inside of the housing.

--plasma cannon-- 471 flashed.

”Oh,” Vuxten said. ”OH!” He clicked channels till his CO popped up.

”What, Lieutenant?” the Terran Captain asked.

”Ma'am, the Precursor machines are deep crust miners, that means high heat and pressure,” Vuxten said. ”My greenie ran the computations.”

”And?” she asked.

”The armor's made to withstand high heat and pressure than a point blank shot from one of the plasma cannons,” Vuxten said. ”Not only can the Great Herd guns not hurt them, but some specialized alloys, something called... uh... mysteronium, get tougher.”

”Mysteronium is what a greenie uses to handwave away a complex armor laminate or alloy. Is he sure of his findings?” She asked.

”You want to ask a greenie if he got his math right?” Vuxten asked.

She chuckled. ”Point. I'll talk to Great Most High A'armo'o, let him know,” she said.

”Sir, communication from the commander of First Telkan Marines,” Most High A'armo'o's communications specialist said.

”Put it through to my visor,” A'armo'o said, looking around the tank. He was half out of the tank, like he'd seen the human commanders do. He had to admit, he liked the visibility it gave him. It gave him a feel of power for the tank, let him look at the tanks around him. Yes, he had one graviton booster smoking heavily, but for some reason it did not cause him anxiety to see it pouring blackish-blue smoke like seeing the icon of it being damaged did.

”Most High,” the human said. Her face was sweaty and A'armo'o was glad he was a tank commander and not a power armor soldier.

”General,” A'armo'o said. He liked the Terran ranks. They had such weight to them.

”You have a problem with the upcoming engagement,” the Terran said.

”Oh?” A'armo'o raised the fur tufts at the top of his forward eyes, normally used to catch perspiration. It had taken him days of practice to emulate the effect and he found he liked it.

”The Precursor machines are deep crust mining machines,” the General started.

”Which means my plasma weapons, which depend on heat and limited kinetic energy, are useless,” A'armo'o said.

”I recommend we break off, Most High,” the human said.

A'armo'o shook his head. ”We must make haste. The threat is immanent.”

The human frowned but nodded. ”As you say, sir. My Marines are with you.”

”What munitions do your Marines have loaded at this time?” A'armo'o asked.

She glanced up. ”Standard mass reactive armor defeating rounds. The heavy gunners have anti-matter rounds loaded up.”

A'armo'o thought quickly. Heat and pressure would increase the vehicle's armor and toughness. He thought real quick, pinged his implant, then nodded to himself.

”Can your men 'fab' up liquid nitrogen rounds for their weapons? Perhaps have your heavy guns mix it at a three to one ratio and your men's rocket and grenade weapons mix it in?” he asked.

She glanced up again, spoke on mute, then looked at A'armo'o again. ”No problem. Good plan.”

”Thank you. Your Marines will be critical to my planning. They have my utmost confidence,” A'armo'o said. Part of him knew that as little as a month ago he would have never had faith in neo-sapient troops, much less rebellious species that had left the Unified Council to join up with a pack of murder machine lemurs.

But when your business was death, murder machine lemurs and their allies were the best partners to have.

The Terran signed off and A'armo'o pinged his commo officer. ”Get me that one eyed human that deal with munitions.”

There was a few seconds before the one eyed Terran appeared in his vision. It was obvious to A'armo'o that the Terran was running in his loading frame, easily keeping up with the hover tanks.

”Casey here,” the Terran snapped.

A'armo'o noted that his eye wasn't glowing red.

”I am Great Most High of Armor A'armo'o,” he said.

”Sergeant First Class Casey, 144th Orndnance Company, Fifteenth Combat Sustainment Battalion,” the human stated. ”What can I do for you?”

”Plasma rounds are problematic for the upcoming battle. The enemy's armor gets stronger when exposed to heat and pressure and undoubtably has high temperature superconductor properties,” A'armo'o said. ”You have the specifics of our main guns, as you have been providing our ammunition needs.”

”Yes,” the Terran answered.