The Weekend Warriors

Before Ann-Marie could respond, an ominous low throbbing, punctuated by squeals of metal on metal, filled the air. The noise reverberated around them, magnified by the smoke screen, getting louder as though it were moving toward them. As one, they turned to the front of the position and stared at the smoke in horrified anticipation.

As she watched, a squat black shape started to grow in the haze. A massive gun tube suddenly broke out of the fog bank, jutting into her vision and swiveling from side to side as though scenting out its prey. Slowly, massively, the rest of the tank appeared, growing out of the smoke. Ann-Marie stared in frozen, terrified fascination as it crawled toward them. Even in her terror, a part of her mind coolly noted the long thermal wrapped 125MM gun tube, the squared off turret splotched with the blocks of explosive reactive armor, the heavy anti-aircraft machine gun on the commander's hatch, the infra-red searchlight to the right of the main gun, and classified it as a T-72 main battle tank. "At least," this part of her mind thought, "I know what's going to kill me."

The tank stopped about twenty meters from them. The turret swiveled to the left and fired at some target known only to the crew. The main gun bucked and belched a bright orange fireball. The blast wave kicked up debris around the position and slapped the three Americans with a physical violence.

Brenda shrieked "Oh God! We're gonna die!" and scrambled out of the foxhole and began running down the hill to Lautertal. As she ran blindly toward the town, stumbling in the protective NBC overboots, she dropped her M-16, hurled her helmet away, and tried to shed her flak jacket and web gear. She had stumbled about ten meters from the OP, to the edge of the smoke, when the turret of the T-72 turned ponderously in her direction. The main gun wagged like a dog's snout testing the breeze for scent. Then a stream of tracers from the coaxial machine gun reached out and casually flipped the running woman off her feet. A series of cones appeared in the earth around her. She danced briefly in a mad jig and then flopped to the ground, like a rag doll carelessly thrown away by an indifferent child. The main gun tube dropped until it pointed directly at Ann-Marie and Kevin. The gunner fired a burst from the coax machine gun at them. The tank was too close to depress the gun enough and the rounds passed harmlessly over their heads. The driver gunned his engine and swung the tank toward the two Americans.

Kevin and Ann-Marie screamed in raw terror and threw themselves to the floor of their position. Her world turned black and the walls of the hole shook as the tank rolled forward and over the trench. The right track passed over the hole, dropped into it and seemed to press down on her with a tangible force. She rolled onto her stomach, screaming in terror and scrabbled at the ground with her fingers. The engine roared as the driver gunned it and pivoted the tank left and right, back and forth over her. The earth crumbled and shook, raining large clods of dirt down on her. The roar of the diesel and squeals of the tracks drowned out her screams and sobs. The tank stopped, rested, and began pivoting again as though the driver was using his steel tracks to dig down to the trapped Americans and grind them into the earth.

Ann-Marie could not hear her own screams, even locked in her protective mask. The noise of the tank penetrated her whole body and was a solid pressure on her. She felt wetness on her thighs as her bladder emptied. Suddenly, the noise stopped again as the tank ceased moving. A blast of concussion slapped her as the Russian fired his main gun. A cloud of dust floated down on her, and was sucked back up as the tank fired again. Each time the gun fired, the tank rocked on its tracks and shook more dirt loose from the walls. The engine roared again and the tracks pivoted as the tank rolled in reverse off their hole and then rolled forward. The front of the track dipped down into the hole, aimed directly at her. She felt her bowels empty and sobbed in terror and self-disgust. The tank rolled forward and off the top of the position. As she lay in the bottom, feeling fouled and shamed, her fear turned to hatred, her panic to rage. She wanted only to kill the men who had degraded her. She slowly pulled herself erect and looked out of the position. The smoke was starting to fade and she could see the tank about fifty meters away. It had stopped, main gun pointed in the general direction of Lautertal. As she watched, the commander's hatch opened, and a tanker stuck his upper body out. He saw Brenda's body off to the right of the tank, about twenty meters away. He casually swung the heavy anti-aircraft machine gun around and fired a long burst into the corpse. It jerked and twitched in a macabre dance as the heavy slugs tore into it. The tanker paused, re-aimed the gun, and blew Brenda's head off in a fountain of red spray. He relocked the machine gun in its traveling position and dropped back down inside the turret, slamming the hatch behind him. Something inside Ann-Marie snapped.

She dropped and shook Kevin by the shoulder. He still lay huddled in the floor of the position.

"Come on. We can get that cocksucker. He's stopped out in front of the town, right behind us. We can nail his ass now." The protective mask distorted her voice and she panted with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, but Kevin understood her. The two of them fumbled in the bottom of the fighting position and found the six AT-4 Antitank Weapons they had stored there the day before, an eternity ago. They each armed three of the throwaway rockets and laid them on the back berm of the position.

"We'll fire salvos of two together as fast as we can. Aim for the engine grill," she told Kevin. They each picked up the first two rockets.

"Ready. Aim. Fire." Two AT-4's streaked out to the T-72. One burst short of the tank, the other hit the right track and severed it, immobilizing the tank. "Fire." The second pair hit the engine grill, the weakest point of the tank. One smashed into the radiator fan, the other severed a fuel line and started a small fire.

The turret was swiveling around to deal with them when the two Americans fired their third salvo. One rocket hit the engine block again, starting another fire. The last rocket missed the engine compartment. It skimmed over the top and smashed into the turret ring. Its explosion jammed the turret with the main gun locked in the three o'clock position. The two small fires fed on spilled diesel and leaking oil and became one big fire. As they did, the hatches on the turret popped open and the gunner and commander began scrambling out. No tanker likes being in a vehicle on fire. Ann-Marie and Kevin were ready for them. The two crewmen fell to a hail of M-16 fire; their bodies draped half in and half out of the hatches. The third tanker, the driver, appeared from in front of the vehicle, his hands in the air, shouting something in Russian as he ran blindly toward them.

Ann-Marie let the man get within three meters of her, close enough to see his unshaven, acne pocked face, and oil stained coveralls. She would wonder later what he was shouting as he waved his arms at her. Now, she coolly and deliberately shot him three times in the head.