Fort Hammer

Malmund Pass, Mu

First Lieutenant Sam Bennett leaned back in his seat before popping his head out of the Booker’s hatch as his unit rolled through the gates of Fort Hammer. Dust swirled in the air as he took in the base — just a mess of tents and buildings scattered like someone forgot where everything went. They probably never expected any fighting to reach this place, not from their previous neighbors the Leiforians nor from these new aggressors, the Gra Valkans. But hey, at least it had a decent perimeter set up; the Muans had done well enough with what they had.

He glanced at the orders on his tablet one more time before stowing it away. The Colonel wanted them to link up with the local commander, a Major Kal Torvin, and get the lay of the land. Well, that was just fine by him. It was about time they got some action.

He guided his platoon to the designated staging area, the engines growling as the tanks came to a stop. Bennett hopped out, squinting against the harsh sunlight. Another day, another dustbowl. At least this one had a bit of shade.

A Muan soldier approached, snapping off a salute. "First Lieutenant Bennett? Major Torvin is waiting for you in the command center."

Bennett tipped his helmet. "Much obliged. Y'all got any chow 'round here? My boys are mighty hungry after that drive."

The soldier pointed towards a nearby building. "The mess hall is over there. Help yourself."

"'Preciate it." Bennett turned to his platoon sergeant. "Sarge, get the men squared away and grab some grub. I'll go see what the major's got cookin'."

As he made his way to the command center, Bennett found himself grinning like an idiot, butterflies churning in his stomach. The Bookers were here, and they were fixin' to give those Gra Valkan sumbitches a taste of American firepower. Inside the command center, Major Kal Torvin hunched over a map table, barely noticing his entrance.

Bennett cleared his throat.

"Ah, First Lieutenant Bennett, glad you could join us," Torvin said, looking up from the map.

Bennett nodded. "Likewise, Major. We’re rarin' to go. What's the situation lookin' like?"

Torvin tapped the map. "The Gra Valkans overran our position on the left flank of the pass yesterday. Everyone’s fallen back to this very base. Intel reports they're now massing approximately 150 armored units 20 kilometers north, including at least 30 Wilder tanks. They're expected to launch an offensive within the next 12 hours, likely targeting our last defensive line here at Malmund Pass."

Bennett leaned in, studying the map. A slow smile spread across his face. This was the kind of party he and his boys had been itchin' for. 4 Bookers, 4 LAVs, and 2 humvees against an entire army – the first tank battle between Uncle Sam and Wannabe Kraut. He’d heard stories of 73 Easting from his Pops, and oh boy was this situation looking a helluva lot more decisive. Shit, whatever goes down in the next few hours might even be immortalized.

"Alright, Major, lay it on me. Where're you thinkin' of puttin' us?"

Torvin's finger traced a path along the map. "We're considering setting up an ambush here, at Devil's Gulch. It's a narrow valley that'll funnel their armor."

Bennett glanced at the ridge and then the valley. High ground, narrow path, easy backpedaling - the Valkies were completely and utterly cooked. "That ridge to the north – what's the elevation?"

"About 50 meters above the valley floor."

Bennett nodded. "We can get hull-down positions there, use that extra elevation to extend our range." He tapped the valley. "This choke point'll negate their numbers too. They'll be bumper to bumper down there."

Torvin looked skeptical. Bennett couldn’t blame him. "You really think four of your tanks can handle their entire armored division?"

Bennett grinned. "Major, our Bookers are a century ahead of those Wilders. And hey, don’t knock the LAVs and humvees. They may not look it, but they can pack a mighty punch.”

Torvin still didn’t seem convinced. To be fair, if he were in Torvin’s shoes, he wouldn’t be able to imagine the equivalent of an armored transport and armored car taking on heavy tanks.

“Trust me, this ain't gonna be a fair fight. Their effective range is what, 2000 meters at best? Can’t move while shooting, got nothing on SABOT or TOW missiles, and they’ll be tripping over each other in that chokepoint. Hell, I almost feel bad for ‘em.”

He turned back to the map, pointing to specific spots on the ridge. "We'll position like this: my tank here for overwatch, two on the flanks for crossfire, and one in reserve. Each tank'll be responsible for its sector of fire. If they try to rush us, we'll fall back in alternating bounds. Meanwhile, our buddies rain hell from the valley."

Torvin's brow furrowed. "I wish we could offer more support. Our artillery's running low after yesterday's barrage, and what little air support we have is tied up elsewhere."

Not that it was much of an issue, especially with Vipers coming in. "No worries, Major. This is what we're here for. A tank-on-tank throwdown is just our style."

He straightened up, his expression turning serious. "I won't lie, Major. They've got numbers, but that's about all they've got. Our main concern’s gonna be ammo conservation. We've got enough to take out their entire force, but we need to make every shot count."

Torvin met his gaze, nodding firmly. "We'll have our remaining forces in reserve back at the base. We’re low on anti-armor, but we’re ready to counterattack if needed."

Bennett nodded. "Alright, I'd better get my boys moving. We'll need time to set up."

Outside, he found his crew lounging near their Booker, munching on their own MREs – no offense to the Muan’s stuff. "Alright boys, chow time's over. We've got ourselves a turkey shoot."

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His gunner, Specialist Cooper, perked up. "Finally gonna let the big girl sing, LT?"

"Oh, she's gonna sing alright. And those Valkies are about to join the choir invisible."

As they mounted up, Bennett filled them in on the plan. The Booker's engine roared to life, a low rumble that got his heart racing. Normally, it was a standard excitement – being able to handle one of the military’s new toys. This time, it was even more pronounced; they were ready to make history. They rolled out, the other three tanks falling in behind.

The trek to Devil's Gulch took the better part of an hour. Bennett took the time to enjoy a quick meal, since he barely had time earlier. Once done, he stood in the hatch, scanning the terrain. Good cover, clear fields of fire. Hell, it was even better in person. This was gonna work just fine.

It didn't take long before they were settled in, the Bookers nestled into their spots like deadly metal turtles. Honestly, the only thing that took long was the attack. Another hour later and the Gra Valkans were yet to show up – no dust in the distance, no advance updates from the Muan scouts ahead; nothing.

Finding some time to kill, Bennett turned to his gunner. "Hey Coop, you catch that Muan sergeant's accent earlier?"

Cooper snorted. "Yeah, sounded like he walked straight outta Downton Abbey or some shit."

"I know, right?" Bennett shook his head. "Never expected these Muans to sound like they're boutta offer us tea and crumpets."

Castillo chimed in from his seat. "My gran would lose her mind. She's obsessed with those British period dramas."

"Hell, maybe we should introduce 'em to some proper Southern drawl," Bennett grinned. "Teach 'em how real English is spoken."

Sergeant Lee's voice cropped up. "You mean butchered, sir?"

"Watch it, Sergeant," Bennett mock-warned. "Or I'll have you reciting 'y'all' fifty times before bed."

"Sir, with all due respect, I'd rather eat whatever they got back at that Muan base," Huang shot back.

Bennett winced. "Damn, Lee. That's cold."

"You know what gets me?" Castillo said. "How they all sound like they're from different parts of Britain. That one captain we met earlier? Pure Cockney."

Cooper chuckled. "Yeah, and remember that logistics guy? Straight-up Irish. Full kilts and shit. I could barely understand a word he said."

“Bruh, kilts is Scottish, dipshit,” Huang said.

“Ehh, then why’d he talk Irish, then?” Cooper countered.

Castillo hummed, thinking up a response. “Fuck if I know, dude. Maybe the Irish counterparts here got the kilt culture?”

"It's like they raided the BBC for voice actors," Bennett mused. "Next thing you know, we'll run into someone who sounds like the Queen herself."

Huang snorted. "Can you imagine? 'We are most displeased with these Gra Valkan rapscallions.'"

The terrible impression set off a round of laughter.

"Seriously though," Bennett said once the chuckles died down, "Why the hell they all sound British? I mean, what are the odds?"

"Maybe it's some kind of universal translator thing," Cooper suggested. "Like in Star Trek. It's just defaulting to British because... I dunno, the universe has a sense of humor?"

Castillo piped up, "Or maybe Britain secretly colonized this world centuries ago. They do have a history of that sort of thing."

"Right," Huang drawled. "Because that makes perfect sense. The British Empire's reach extended to other dimensions. What, they pulled a Manifest Fantasy and we never knew about it?"

"Hey, you got a better explanation?" Castillo shot back.

Bennett shook his head, grinning. "Alright, alright. New game. Best British impression wins. Loser has to try eating that slop they got back at Fort Hammer."

What followed was a series of increasingly ridiculous attempts at British accents, each more outrageous than the last. Bennett found himself laughing so hard his sides hurt.

"Oi, guv'nor," Cooper wheezed in a truly awful Cockney accent. "Fancy a spot of tea before we go murderin' these Gra Valkan tossers?"

"Oh, good heavens," Castillo responded in a posh tone. "I do believe it's time for elevenses. Shall we pause the war for cucumber sandwiches?"

Lee's attempt at a Scottish accent was so bad it was nearly unintelligible, sending everyone into fresh fits of laughter.

As the laughter died down, Bennett wiped tears from his eyes. "Christ, I think my ears are bleeding. You all suck at this."

"Like you could do better, sir," Huang challenged.

Bennett cleared his throat dramatically. "Now see here, old chap," he said in his best upper-crust English accent. "These dashed Gra Valkans are being most unsporting. I say we give them a jolly good thrashing, what?"

There was a moment of silence before Cooper spoke up. "Damn, LT. That was actually pretty good."

"Yeah, where'd you learn to do that?" Castillo asked.

Bennett grinned. "Would you believe I did community theater in high school? Played Algernon in 'The Importance of Being Earnest.'"

"No shit?" Huang sounded impressed. "Hidden depths, sir."

“Ay–” Cooper started, but he was cut off by a new transmission, coming from one of the Muan scouts.

"Longhorn Actual, Muan Observer Post 3. Enemy in sight. Stop. Large column of armored vehicles approaching from north-northwest. Stop. Estimated 80 to 100 vehicles including heavy tanks. Stop. Speed approximately 15 miles per hour. Stop. Will reach your position in quarter hour. Stop. Awaiting orders. Over."

Bennett responded, “Roger that, Observer Post 3. Good work. Fall back to your secondary positions. Longhorn out.”

He switched to the platoon channel. "Alright boys, party's over. You heard the man – we've got 15 minutes. I want final checks on all systems. Cooper, make sure that main gun's ready."

"Already on it, LT," Cooper replied.

Bennett scanned the horizon, finally spotting the telltale dust clouds in the distance. His heart rate picked up, a mix of anticipation and nerves settling in his gut. This was it – the moment they'd been waiting for.

"All Longhorn elements, sound off. Give me status reports."

One by one, his tank commanders reported in. All systems green, weapons loaded, crews ready. Good. He shared his platoon’s readiness with the LAV-25 platoon and the pair of humvees that traveled alongside them.

"All Longhorn elements, confirm your sectors of fire," Bennett ordered, his voice crisp and professional. "Remember your priority targets. Wilders first, then command vehicles. Maintain fire discipline and stick to the ROE."

A series of affirmatives came back over the radio as each tank commander confirmed their assigned sector and understanding of the rules of engagement.

Bennett then spoke to his gunner. "Cooper, you got eyes on that lead vehicle yet?"

"Affirmative, sir," Cooper replied. "Looks like a Wilder. Range... 3,800 meters and closing."

Bennett nodded to himself. "Good. We'll let them get a bit closer. Stand by."

The dust clouds grew larger, and Bennett could now make out the dim shapes of vehicles through his optics. The Gra Valkan armored column was impressive, he had to admit. But they had no idea what they were in for.

"All Longhorn elements," Bennett said over the platoon net. “Engage.”