Malmund Pass, Mu

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

The valley lit up with the blasts of their cannons, the retort of the LAVs’ chain guns, and the screeching of TOWs from the humvees and the LAVs that happened to be of the AT variant. Joining in were occasional thumps from an M252 mortar, launched by their lone LAV-M.

Bennett watched through his optics as the Gra Valkan column rolled into view, his unit still well beyond the effective range of the enemy's outdated guns. He smiled grimly. A battle? More like target practice.

Bennett's voice cut through the intercom: "Target, Wilder, 12 o'clock, 3200 meters."

"Identified," Cooper responded immediately.

The fire control system quickly calculated the firing solution.

"On the way!" Cooper called out, squeezing the trigger.

The Booker shuddered as its main gun fired, the boom reverberating through Bennett's body. Through his sight, he watched the round streak downrange, leaving a faint trail in the air. In less than two seconds, it struck the Gra Valkan tank dead center.

The APFSDS round punched through the outdated armor like it was tissue paper, spalling the interior. Bennett knew the crew inside was dead instantly, turned to pink mist by the hypervelocity fragments of their own tank's armor.

The Gra Valkan column lurched to a stop, clearly caught off guard by the hit from beyond their visual range. The stricken tank sat motionless, a small hole in its turret the only external sign of the devastation within.

Then, as the tank's ammunition began to cook off, secondary explosions ripped through the vehicle. Only now did it erupt into flames, a pillar of black smoke rising into the sky.

Tanks facing 25mm APDS-T rounds didn’t fare any better, the thick Wilder armor melting in the face of modern SABOT technology. The TOWs? Well, they damn near annihilated their targets. And the 81mm mortars? Hell, the enemy’s clumped up light armor didn’t stand a chance. The message was clear: the Gra Valkans were hopelessly outmatched.

By then, they’d already moved on. "Target destroyed," Cooper reported, already scanning for the next threat.

"Load sabot!" Bennett ordered.

"Up!" came Castillo’s response moments later.

As the loader rammed another round home, Bennett's eyes gleamed as he surveyed the battlefield. Hot damn, they were completely disarrayed.

Tank after tank, trapped in the killzone like it was some kinda parade. Their front line was thrown into chaos, vehicles scrambling to reverse only to bump into a traffic jam of their own design. This wasn't a battle, it was a goddamn shooting gallery.

Part of him almost felt bad. Almost. But mostly, he was itching to see what these Bookers could really do. All that training, all those simulations - this was the real deal. The Valkies should’ve had their own simulations. Or did they? Who knows if they’d actually studied up on what they’d done in Louria, in Parpaldia, and in the Grameus continent. Granted, there weren’t that many examples of Abrams, let alone Bookers, in action, but surely they would’ve realized what American firepower looked like.

"Target, Wilder, 11 o'clock, 3100 meters," Bennett called out.

"Identified. On the way!"

Another boom, another explosion in the distance.

"Target destroyed. Traversing right."

Shit, was this what his grandaddy felt like with his Sherman, facing off against those Tigers? Except this time, the tables had turned. The Gra Valkans were bringing knives to a gunfight, and Bennett's crew had the biggest, baddest gun on the block.

No time to philosophize, though. They were here to do a job, and by God, they were gonna do it with style. And the poor Valkies? Hell, they were getting taught a real lesson in war – assuming any of 'em lived to learn it.

Again and again their gun thumped, pumping 105mm down range. All the Wilders at the front had been reduced to nothing but smoldering heaps of scrap metal, and their lightly armored buddies were next. The Booker's systems allowed them to engage multiple targets in rapid succession, far faster than the Gra Valkans could even dream of responding.

Bennett keyed his radio. "Longhorn-2, multiple targets, 1 o'clock, range 3900 to 4100."

"Roger that, engaging," came their commander’s reply.

Bennett watched as three more Gra Valkan vehicles erupted into flames, victims of Longhorn-2's deadly accuracy. The valley floor was quickly becoming a graveyard of burning metal and smoke.

"Good shooting, Longhorn-2," Bennett said. "All Longhorn elements, keep pushing. Don't let up."

– –

The ridge had been a blessing. That’s what Koens told himself, even as his hands itched to fire something — anything. It was quiet here, not in terms of sound of course, but in activity. He could only listen as their comrades were getting torn apart on the other side, one by one, like a goddamn firing squad out there. The worst part? He had no idea who was doing the shooting. The transmissions coming in were jumbled, a mess of screaming voices and static. What was the last one? "Dead before we even saw them!" Something like that.

He leaned back in his seat, tapping a finger against the side of the hatch. "Well, boys, looks like we're up next. Just waiting our turn at the meat grinder."

Niel, his gunner, let out a shaky laugh. "At least we’re still in one piece."

Koens glanced at him and forced a grin. "Yeah, until they decide to take a peek over this ridge and punch our ticket."

It wasn't much of a comfort. They were safe for now, but only because they hadn't poked their heads up yet. He could feel the tension humming beneath his crew’s half-hearted attempts at banter. The Wilder’s systems purred beneath him, ready for action, but their full complement of ammo was just dead weight right now. It was like sitting on a time bomb and wondering if they'd be around when it went off.

He eyed the control panel like a lover he didn’t know how to talk to anymore. All that time together, all those experiences... And yet, it felt like they were being hunted by something they couldn’t even comprehend.

The garbled comms came to life again. Another hit. Another Wilder down. And all from what? Some kind of high-tech American long-range voodoo weapon? That’s what the rumors were, anyway. Koens felt a spike of irritation. Of course, the brass would send them out here without telling them what they were really up against. Politicians loved a good speech about honor and country but never had to face whatever invisible death was cutting through his men like butter. High-tech precision death from nowhere, and here he was, still squatting behind a ridge with his whole crew intact. Not for long.

He sighed, glancing at the ridge that had kept them alive so far. "Hell, we haven’t even fired a shot, and half the platoon’s already gone."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Maybe we should stay right here, sir," Niel suggested, half-serious.

Koens rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing at the horizon. He knew the others were thinking the same thing—staying put meant they wouldn’t draw fire. But it also meant waiting until someone got curious and sent a round straight through their turret. Not exactly his idea of survival. He’d rather go down swinging.

He cracked his knuckles and looked at his loader, Tarin, who was busy checking the rounds for the hundredth time. "Tarin, you ever wonder if we should’ve stayed in the workshop instead of this glorious career of getting vaporized in a steel coffin?"

Tarin grunted. "Nah. Pay's better."

Koens let out a dry laugh. "Well, I’m sure the brass will send our families a nice postcard when this is over. 'Thanks for your service. Here’s a medal for that hole where your torso used to be.'"

Then it happened. A metallic thud slammed through the tank, and the Wilder shuddered hard enough to rattle the loose bolts. Koens' heart leapt to his throat, and his eyes snapped toward the source of the sound. Turret hit. Only grazed, judging by the lack of explosions and flames, but the tank had shuddered hard enough to make him sweat. He gripped his seat, heart racing as the tank settled back into stillness.

"Status!" he barked.

Niel called out, panic edging into his voice. "Turret’s jammed, sir! We took a hit on the housing — feels like it nearly tore through! No rotation. We’re dead in the water."

Koens’ heart sank. Nearly tore through. The Wilder’s armor wasn’t built for this kind of punishment. The round had hit hard enough to jar the entire turret, and from the grinding sound of the mechanisms, it was a miracle the thing hadn’t blown them all to pieces right then and there. Another hit, though? They wouldn’t be so lucky.

Koens cursed under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. So that was it — they were sitting ducks now. The worst possible situation. They couldn’t fight back, couldn’t move their main gun, and the enemy knew where they were. It wouldn’t be a graze next time.

He leaned forward, gripping the comms unit. He didn’t trust anyone else’s orders right now, especially from the idiots sending them into this. All the rhetoric in the world wasn’t going to stop them from getting torn apart by an enemy they couldn’t even see.

"Shit," Tarin muttered from the back. "They’ll blow us to hell if we stick around."

Koens nodded grimly. He knew Tarin was right. The thought of peeking out now, turret jammed, no chance to fire back? Suicide. There was no point risking the entire crew just to get a visual.

"Alright, listen up," Koens said, forcing calm into his voice. "We’re bailing. We’re behind cover right now, and that’s the only advantage we’ve got left. We’ll make for the rocks and figure out our next move."

Niel swallowed. "You sure? If we leave this thing, we’re sitting ducks on foot."

Koens clenched his jaw. They were already sitting ducks inside. At least outside, they had a chance to move. Staying in the tank was nothing but a death sentence now. He took a deep breath and met his crew’s eyes, one by one. "We’re more useful alive than dead in this coffin. We move fast, we stay low, and we might just make it out of here."

Tarin was already at the hatch. "I’ll take my chances out there. Better than sitting here waiting for a second hit."

Koens couldn’t argue with that. He’d tinkered with this tank, worked on it for months, trusted it to keep them safe. But right now, it was nothing more than a bullseye for whatever high-tech horror was hunting them down. There was no shame in bailing out. The Wilder was dead. They didn’t have to be.

"On my mark," Koens said, tightening his grip on the hatch release. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him. They were behind cover, sure, but the next move was crucial. If they hesitated, if they made too much noise or stuck their heads out at the wrong time...

Fuck it. He hadn’t heard any small arms fire, so they would probably be fine. They had to go now.

"Mark!"

The hatch swung open, and the crew scrambled out into the dirt. Koens hit the ground, rolling to the side, heart pounding in his chest as he pressed himself flat against the ridge. He could hear the distant thump of enemy fire, but for now, their position held.

"We’re clear," Niel whispered, crawling beside him.

Koens exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. They had made it. For the moment, anyway.

"Alright," Koens muttered, peeking over the ridge. "Now let’s see what the hell we’re up against."

He squinted, blinking through the dust and smoke that drifted across the valley. His heart pounded in his chest, but even from this distance, the shapes were unmistakable. American tanks, sleek and massive, lined up like predators waiting to pounce. They were maybe three kilometers out, and it was clear why his comrades hadn’t stood a chance. He was no stranger to tank designs, but these things looked like something out of a nightmare. Even at this range, they were methodical, deadly.

"Three kilometers... Maybe four." Could they see him? He scanned the horizon, but the Americans were motionless now, their barrels cooling. There was no movement in his direction. Not yet, anyway.

His eyes darted to the battlefield below. Carnage. Absolute carnage. Wilder tanks, once the pride of their columns, now littered the valley like broken toys, some burning, others nothing more than smoldering heaps of scrap metal.

Some crews had already thrown in the towel. A few tanks had white flags raised, fluttering limply in the haze, and some of the crews were out in the open, hands raised, hoping for mercy. But not enough. Not nearly enough. There were still those who hadn’t given up — tanks trying to crawl away, others sitting stubbornly with no surrender in sight. Fools.

Koens clenched his fists. It’s over. They’d been picked apart, methodically destroyed from a distance, like they hadn’t even mattered. Whatever pride the Gra Valkan Empire held in its war machine, it wasn’t here anymore, not in this valley.

He looked over at Niel and Tarin, who were both crouched beside him, eyes wide as they took in the battlefield.

"Do we…?" Niel started, but his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," Koens muttered. "We do." His voice was low, resignation sinking in like a weight on his chest. They were next. If they stayed in the fight, all they’d be doing was waiting for that final round to end it. And for what? The Wilder’s turret was useless, and their armor wouldn’t survive another strike. They didn’t even have a clear target to shoot at.

"Raise the flag," Koens ordered, his throat tight.

Tarin fumbled for the white cloth, his hands trembling as he tied it to a long rod and shoved it up over the ridge. They stayed low, hidden, as they waved the flag back and forth, praying it would be seen before anyone decided they were still a threat.

Koens exhaled, a bitter taste in his mouth as he watched the battlefield grow quiet. The Americans weren’t firing anymore. Either they had run out of targets or had simply decided that there was no more resistance worth shooting at. The entire valley seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next move. And whatever that next move was, Koens was certain of one thing: They were done.

That’s when he heard the thrum—something distant but growing, like a buzzing that grew into a roar. He turned his head toward the sound, and his heart sank further.

Aircraft.

They weren’t bombers or anything he recognized. Small, fast, and vicious-looking, hovering like predatory insects over the battlefield. Koens looked up, trying to make sense of them. They had sleek, angular bodies with rotors on top but none of the bulkiness of the planes he’d been used to. American, definitely. They had that same advanced, over-engineered look about them. But what the hell were they?

One of the strange machines circled high, moving with an eerie precision, watching, waiting.

"Tarin," Koens whispered, "You ever seen anything like that?"

Tarin shook his head slowly. "No, sir. What the hell is it?"

"American." That’s all Koens could say. He didn’t know what it was, but it was clear that whatever the hell it did, it wasn’t here for sightseeing. Whatever it was, it wasn’t here to get close. It controlled the battlefield from above, with all the firepower it needed.

He’d heard stories about these things in distant conflicts – rumors from people who had buddies at the Bureau of Information, but never seen one in action. Helicopters? Whatever this thing was, it didn’t need a name. It had rockets bristling underneath and enough menace to make sure no one was getting back up. It was death with rotors, and that was all he needed to know.

Koens turned his attention back to the ground. Muan infantry, their trucks trailing smoke and dust, had begun creeping in. They weren’t much better equipped than his own, their vehicles a little older, a little rougher around the edges. The trucks were familiar, nothing too far off from what the Gra Valkan Army used. Maybe a little outdated, but not by much. But the Muan infantry — Koens had seen them before. They worked efficiently, moving from tank to tank, checking bodies and disarming those who had surrendered. Sturdy, determined, and grim-faced, they were the mop-up crew, here to finish what the Americans had started.

Koens motioned to his men. "Keep your hands where they can see them. We’re not going to give them a reason to shoot."

The Muan soldiers approached cautiously, weapons drawn, and Koens raised his hands higher, the white flag still waving in the wind. He could see their eyes, the same look he’d seen in too many battles — anger, vengeance, rage, and wrath; but also exhaustion, maybe a little pity. They knew this was over too.

As the nearest soldier came up to him, rifle trained on his chest, Koens nodded slowly. "We surrender."

The Muan soldier hesitated for a moment, then nodded back. It was done.