No, the book I was working on is a space opera thing. I still can't believe I haven't gotten around to finishing it... well, yes, I can totally believe that. I don't quite know how it ends yet, and I'm to the point where I can't move forward without that information ;) I see people talk about reporters, and I confess, I don't really know what that means.

Thanks for the friendly words, all! This is actually the 10th installment of the series so far. If you look up my threads in this forum, just read them in the order they were posted. I've been debating starting a thread that would link to all of them, and sort them both by order of posting and by order in the timeline. I have three more stories already written, and pretty clear plans for three beyond that. Well, pretty clear plans for one beyond that, and the beginnings of ideas for two more.

The Whisky Occupation Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Fresh after graduation, Fred was given his first platoon. He kept Al and Liza in his own tank, of course. Larry, Chip, and Alba, formerly of Golf Echo Nine, crewed Bravo tank; Nienna, Nancy, and Nester, formerly from the Blue regiment, rode in Charlie. Both Fred and Chip commanded lightweight tanks with exceptional speed and maneuverability; Nienna was in charge of their Big Gun. Fresh after graduation, Georgina was given her first squad. She, and her second-in-command Phil, were responsible for twelve other soldiers, all selected from their training regiment. They were quite a mix of attitudes and abilities, but she felt they were a solid lot. Georgie’s Dozen, they liked to call themselves. The units were merged as a team, and the team was given an objective: Operation Greenway. Intelligence reported a seditionist stronghold just inside their borders. The compound was to be taken with minimal damage; the seditionists and any sympathizers were to be captured for questioning. “It’s a cornfield,” said Phil. “And those?” asked Georgina, finger pointing at several structures in the southeast corner of the property. “Residence. Warehouse. Residence. Silo. Distillery. Warehouse. Garage.” listed Phil, his finger moving from outline to outline on the map. “It’s forty square kilometers of corn and a family-run business.” He snorted. “While I can’t speak to their political affiliations, there is no evidence whatsoever of a seditionist stronghold.” “There could be weapons or even tanks hidden in those warehouses,” pointed out Nienna. “I’ve actually been there,” said Chip. “I grew up in this area, went to school with one of the Hederson boys. His family owns the place. We played there sometimes.” He shook his head. “It’s a distillery and a farm. Nothing more.” “Look,” said Fred, “it may be a mistake, or it may be correct, but we have our orders. We are going to take the objective, and we are going to do it with as little damage as possible.” He looked at Chip. “That way, when this gets straightened out, the Hedersons will have a home to come back to.” Chip snorted. “You really think this is going to get straightened out? The government is annexing that property. And what do you think they want with a forty square kilometer parcel of land just three clicks from the border?” Georgina stood. “We are doing this. We have no choice, and talking isn’t going to change that. We are not here to debate policy; we are here to discuss tactics.” “This ain’t right,” muttered Chip. “This ain’t right.” A silence settled in the command tent. The single light illuminated the table with the aerial photos and map carefully laid out. Around the edge of the table, five shadowy figures each pursued their own private thoughts. Fred nodded. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll take the tanks in a column straight up the main road here, then up the driveway. That will minimize any damage to the crops. Nienna’s heavy will lead the way. Infantry should follow the last tank in a dispersed column to protect them from possible sniper fire. We’ll assume the approach is mined, so we’ll proceed with full ground-clearing protocol.” Georgina looked at him as if he were crazy. “Seriously? Mines? Snipers? Do you expect any of that from a family-owned farm? Not to mention that they’ll see us coming, quite literally, a mile away!” Fred shrugged. “I don’t see how it can be helped. Intelligence reports a seditionist stronghold,” he said, emphasizing the last word. “We must act accordingly. Clearing that approach will take us at least three hours.” He nodded thoughtfully. “We’d better not rush it. Seditionist traps can be hard to spot. Best to be sure. We’ll check every step twice. Six hours. Maybe seven.” He rubbed his chin, then looked around the room. “I don’t see how it can be done any faster.” Georgina started to open her mouth, then something flickered in her eyes. She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Absolutely. We will not risk losing a single soldier to traps set by seditionist swine. In fact, I want that approach triple-checked before I allow my soldiers to set foot on it.” “So, nine hours?” asked Phil. Georgina scowled at him. “What, do you think I place so little value on my soldiers’ welfare? If one gets so much as a stubbed toe, I will consider this mission a failure. Twelve hours. Not a second less. We will be safe, and we will accomplish the objective without incident.” “What about drones?” asked Phil. Georgina frowned and tapped her pursed lips. “It would clearly be negligent of us not to use drones to monitor the compound and any people inside.” There was a thoughtful pause. Feet shuffled. People looked at each other. Nienna finally cleared her throat. “Um, boss?” “Yes?” acknowledged Fred. “Didn’t we get a directive a little while back about the drones? Firmware updates or software updates, something like that? I don’t recall us ever installing those.” Fred frowned. “I don’t seem to remember that.” “I’m, um, I’m pretty sure if you check the logs, maybe tomorrow when you’re not so busy, that you’ll find a directive in there from, oh, say a couple of weeks back.” “Come to think of it, I do believe you’re right. Thanks for bringing that up.“ Fred looked at Chip and Nienna. “It would also be negligent of us to try and use our drones on such a sensitive mission without first installing and thoroughly testing any outstanding updates.” “Agreed.” “Yes, sir.” Phil harrumphed and looked at Georgina. “You’ll recall I reported the same thing to you a few days ago.” “Indeed,” said Georgina. “I’ll make sure your recommendation appeared in my log. That’s a real shame, a technical glitch interfering with our ability to assess enemy strength or movement. We should all make entries in our logs. It just reinforces the need for caution.” Fred, Phil, Chip, Nienna, and Georgina all exchanged looks and nodded. “Right. Mount up!” said Fred. Half a day later, the column crept to the front door of the largest residence. Inside, in the entryway, was a stack of three crates labeled Hederson Special Reserve with a bow on top. Strangely, the residence, and all of the other structures, were completely vacant. Not a single Hederson, or worker, or seditionist sympathizer was to be found. The garage was half empty; the heavy farm machinery was still there, but no personal vehicles or cargo trucks were present. The warehouses held some corn, but no whisky. Most of the clothing and personal effects seemed to be gone from the residences as well. Georgina and Fred distributed the “captured” bottles of whisky liberally, keeping aside five. Later, as the leaders met to debrief after their successful action, they each signed every bottle. “This is a solid,” declared Chip. “No matter what happens, there will never be a time when we are too busy, too involved, too locked in opposition, to stop and share a drink.” Operation Greenway was listed as a success. The government did indeed annex the land; the crops were razed; the buildings, demolished; construction began on a new “community service” project. The soldiers involved did talk, as soldiers do. The story that spread was not one of an assault on a corn field, nor was it one of escaped seditionists. The story that was told was about two commanders, tank and infantry, who valued the lives and welfare of their soldiers so much that they, themselves, worked to clear the road of mines and I.E.D.s. Out in the hot sun, working side-by-side with the grunts, on a gravel-paved farm road nearly a kilometer long, they literally left no stone unturned.

I did notice! And I'm flattered that you'd consider someone as new as I am worth nodding to! Thank you!

Not Universe 46! Anywhere but Universe 46!

Where do I get one of those A-22 suits?

The One-Bottle Coup Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii As far as coups go, the first several hours had gone swimmingly. So far, not a shot had been fired, although that could hardly be expected to last. The city, the Capitol, all of the major government buildings, the media outlets, and the major data centers were all besieged. For this, tanks were perfect. Inside those places were a handful of corrupt officials, a healthy dose of defensive troops, and a veritable sea of innocent civilian workers. Someone had to go in there and try to remove the corruption without sacrificing loyal soldiers or killing hapless office workers. For this, tanks were not so good. That the Tank Corps was his to command, the general had no doubt. He personally knew every officer above the rank of captain, and had no doubt that those who had risen to positions of leadership in his corps would share his vision and follow his lead. Where there were tanks, there were infantry. Many of those commanders he knew as well, but he lacked the strong ties that bound members within a service. Across the entire war, his commanders were talking earnestly with their infantry counterparts, trying to enlist their support. Problem was, the Leadership was not being idle. True, they were besieged, but their infrastructure was intact. Short of destroying the facilities, the general could not stop them from using any of a dozen methods of communication with units in the field. He actually pitied the infantry commanders. In one ear, they were receiving orders from high up the chain of command, telling them that the Tank Corps commanders were traitors and needed to be restrained or destroyed. In the other ear, the officers whom they had fought alongside during the course of this abominable war were telling them that their duty lay in the removal of the lawfully-elected Leadership. Not a position the general envied, and one he genuinely regretted having to place them in. The cell phone felt cool against his ear. He counted the rings. What would he say, he wondered, if it went through to voicemail? “General Patton, as I live and breathe!” snarked a familiar voice at the other end. “Or maybe I should call you Rommel? Abrams? Wait, no, Zhukov!” The general sighed. “Call me what you like, Georgie, but I really think we should talk. Do you want to work through the entire history of notable tankers first? Or can we maybe move past the litany of sarcasm?” There was a lengthy silence. “Tell you what, Georgie. I’m going to set up a field table in the plaza out front. I’ll be there with our very best friend until you show up or not. Hope to see you.” The general pocketed his phone. “Kevin?” he called. A young officer poked his head through the door. “Yes, sir?” “Run out to my tank, and tell Mira I need the bottle. Then tell her ‘No, the special bottle.’ Then tell her ‘No, the other special bottle.’ Got it? “Bottle, special bottle, other special bottle. Roger.” “Great. Do we have a portable table and a couple of field chairs handy?” “Of course, sir. Shall I get those as well?” “No, just point the way. I can manage.” A few minutes later, the general had set up his small table and two chairs in the middle of People’s Plaza facing the Capitol. On one side, his tanks were arrayed. On the other loomed a triumph of modern architecture. On any other day, this plaza would have been crowded with people. People going places, people enjoying the sun and a coffee, people shopping, people doing business, people having fun, people in love. But today was not any other day. Kevin approached and handed the general a small wooden box, saluted, then walked away. The general opened it gently, almost reverentially. Inside was a bottle of whisky. The brand was pedestrian; the year, unremarkable. It was a fine enough whisky, the sort of thing a recruit could not quite afford to buy. There was nothing whatsoever special about its pedigree. Its history, though, was shared only by a handful of soldiers; a short list of names represented by faded signatures scrawled on its sides. It was getting hot. The general got up and moved his table into the shade of the Capitol. True, he was no longer centered in the plaza, thus messing up the aesthetics of this historical meeting (if it happened), or his assassination (much more likely), but he didn’t care to add sunburn to his current catalog of woes. He went back for the chairs, then sat down to watch the front of the building. Aides came and went, bringing him dispatches that required his immediate attention. His phone and laptop were rarely idle. As the sun dipped closer to the horizon, he took his rations there. He did leave once, for a couple of minutes, but when nature calls, nature calls. Still, the general was a tanker, and he knew a thing or two about spending long hours on uncomfortable chairs. It was nearly sunset when the front doors opened. Tall, proud, and the image of a national hero, General Georgina Olson strode from the building. The general stood and moved out from behind the table. They stood facing each other. Gods above, she was lovely! The years had been kind; the general wouldn’t have credited it back then, but she was even hotter now than when they had served together on what they laughingly called “The Whisky Occupation.” “General.” He saluted, and she responded. He stepped forward, arms expanding for an embrace, but she halted him with a stern “Wait!” She turned in a slow circle, right hand held high, two fingers extended. “Sorry, a girl can’t be too careful!” With that, she fell into his arms, and they enjoyed the long, enthusiastic embrace that only shared romance or shared adversity can inspire. “Snipers?” “Dozens.” She laughed and glanced over his shoulder. “Tanks?” “Seemed fair.” They sat down across from each other, the bottle in the middle of the table. Georgina picked it up gently. “I’m happy to see that you still have it.” She turned the label to inspect it. “My signature hasn’t held up terribly well, though.” “Cheap pen,” shrugged the general. “Do you still have yours?” “Of course. I’d have brought it with me, but I keep it at home, and I can’t exactly dash across town to get it, can I?” “I can send a driver for it, if you’d like.” She smiled. “Yes, I think I’ll be needing it.” He glanced inquiringly at the rooftop. She nodded, stood, and held up her left hand, one finger raised. He waved for Kevin to approach. She gave the aide careful instructions, to which the general added “Kevin, that bottle is important. Hear me.” before allowing him to depart. She reached across the table for his hand; he took it. “It’s so good to see you again, Fred.” “You too, Georgie. You too. I really can’t believe how beautiful you are.” This woman, this general, this leader of soldiers and shaper of national policy, actually blushed and giggled at the compliment. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long, Fred. I’d have been down hours ago, right after you called, but I had to set things straight with the Leadership.” “Can’t imagine they’re pleased you decided to come.” “They’re not. The ‘great man’ flew into a tizzy. Minister Warez actually laid hands on me to stop me from walking out the door.” Fred chuckled. “Whadja break?” She laughed with him. “Just his pinky.” Then she frowned. “Actually, I’m not positive it broke. I may just have dislocated it.” She shrugged. “Persuading them to let me go was easier than ensuring your safety. I have more soldiers guarding against unauthorized assassination attempts than I do snipers protecting me!” “I appreciate the consideration,” he said wryly. “I hope it wasn’t wasted.” She eyed the sky meaningfully. “They could well call in an airstrike, just kill us both. I control the Army; I have little say over the Air Corps.” Fred shrugged. “Let’s hope they have the common courtesy to wait until we’re drunk!”

You've articulated quite nicely some things I have experienced but not consciously thought about. 1. I am approaching promotion, and I have been running up against opponents who outclass me. But, really, that doesn't bother me in and of itself. Presumably I was recently outclassing someone else. That's just going to be the nature of the game, I suppose, until I am the biggest and best of all. I try to remember how little I enjoy being dominated when the rare times come along that I am in a position to dominate. 2. Overcrowding. Absolutely. I enjoy playing team-based scenarios, and my preference is that there be 4-5 players on a side. This allows for actual strategy, the opportunity for cooperation to be a valid option. Having 20 tanks on some of these maps is like trying to find parking in a mall over a holiday weekend. And I have noticed that, since the unified battle list, finding games that are not packed to capacity is an increasingly rare occurrence. I wonder if this might not, in part, be a deliberate ploy to entice more people to pay for Pro status? 3. Can't say I've noticed this one. Aside from my default Smoky at the very beginning, I've only played Isida. Haven't noticed any change in the functionality of repair boxes. 4. I find it strange that, by default, every map isn't represented for every style of game play. Ok, assault aside since it's new. My incentive is to try and bring balance. That, and to support the underdog. But you're right about the current missions devaluing that incentive. By joining the side that's trailing, all I'm really doing is sacrificing my shot at completing a mission.

I do like the "top 3" aspect of it; just not the winning team! I mean, objectively, now three people get to complete a mission, where under the old system only two did. But I'm a fan of the underdog, and always have been. Probably because I was raised on American television ;)

I'm looking forward to the return of the regular missions. But to respond to the "just change it" philosophy, we only get one free change, and it's not any easier. Really, do you think I haven't tried hitting the friendly "Change" button? Substituting one overly-difficult task for another really doesn't accomplish anything, and offering to charge me to continue exchanging them is not really a solution. Anyway, it'll soon be over!

In general, I like missions. I play every day just to make sure I clear them and stay on track. But these new missions... I understand that the difficulty has been amped up, and the rewards (kinda) as well. "Finish first in a battle" has been replaced by "Take one of the top three places in the winner's team in a battle." This one in particular has changed my choice of games. Used to be, I'd always jump in on the underdog's side and do my best. Maybe I'd make a difference in the tide of battle, maybe I wouldn't. And maybe I'd be the best on my side, or maybe I wouldn't. But I'd always try to balance the game. Now, I won't join the short side if there's a score disparity of more than a few points. There's no chance I'm going to move towards mission completion on the losing team, so there's no incentive for me to try and help balance the scales. Maybe I would help, maybe I wouldn't, but for the duration of this mission's existence, I am no longer willing to even try. For the rest of the missions, the success thresholds have been pushed high enough that it's unlikely I'll be able to complete one in a day with my current play habits. There's currently no consequence to me missing a day, and the rewards have not been upscaled commensurate to the increase in time needed. Making a mission three times as hard but only doubling the rewards... I don't see how that's going to make the game fun. I know everyone has an opinion, and they all stink And I understand that the developers are trying to keep things fresh and fun for as many people as possible. This change, and I surely do hope it is short lived, has served only to discourage me. I'm playing less, because the per-hour rewards of playing have dropped. YMMV.

Thanks!

I'm about 70,000 words into a scifi novel that's been collecting dust for... maybe 4 years now? I'm hoping that be getting back into the habit of writing here, I'll be able to finish that one!

Thank you! I surely do appreciate the praise! I'm secretly hoping that I can keep this up for an entire year, so... we'll see! There are three more stories already "in the can," so rest assured that another installment is coming! If you don't mind sharing, what was the typo? I'd like to correct it in the original as well. Thank you! Again, nice to hear that people are enjoying it! I do like the stand-alone aspect of this one, and plan to keep sprinkling them in as I go along. The next few are going to be more plot-heavy, so something lighthearted and fun seemed appropriate. I'll put some thought into a header, but graphic design is totes not my thing. ;)

Is it just me, or did the missions just get much harder? I few weeks ago, a typical mission might be: -gather 5 repair boxes -kill 8 enemies -earn 500 experience in TDM My most recent batch included: -collect 15 armor boxes -destroy 90 enemies -earn 900 experience I haven't gotten promoted. Is this a tweak for the new year's celebration?

Run, Rabbit, Run Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii “Ok, Liza, traverse to the rear and stand ready. Al, hit the turbo.” Fred felt his tank surge forward, lunging at the horizon, as fast as any armored vehicle had ever traveled. “Stand ready, Liza. Ready, steady, fire!” The recoil of the cannon coincided with Golf Echo Two’s treads leaving the edge of the overhang, boosting their already-considerable momentum a bit more. Fred flipped a switch, dropping a mine that fell squarely atop Golf Echo Seven as his own tank sailed scant centimeters overhead. The impact with the ground was harsh, to say the least, and the squeal of pneumatics told Fred his tank was due for some serious service. “Three down, seven to go!” called Al. “Work your magic, but head us northeast,” replied Fred. “Liza, traverse left, come to forty-five degrees.” On his display, Fred could see the enemy forces scrambling to react to their unanticipated maneuver. Who said tanks couldn’t fly? “Ok, Al, take any of the next three lefts, then slow to about half. When I say ‘jump,’ you slue left and floor it.” “Got it,” said Al. “Liza, hold your angle. When we slue left, you’ll cross an incoming hostile nose-on.” “Got it,” replied Liza. Fred watched dots converging on his monitor. “Al, just a little faster. Faster yet. Good. Good. Ready. Steady. Jump!” The tank slalomed left and lept forward. The cannon spoke. On his display, Fred saw another hostile disappear. “Fantastic shot Liza!” Ohoh. “Al, stop! We’ve got two lining up to take cross shots at the next intersection!” Tanks only stop so fast, but Golf Echo Two slid to a halt with almost a meter to spare before the fatal intersection. Dust flew from the treads as they scrambled for purchase in reverse. “We’re going through that warehouse,” said Al. “Traverse left! Ninety degrees!” Fred heard the turret servos whining, felt the tank turning as it ran backwards towards the beckoning warehouse doors. On the other side of that thin sheet metal wall lurked something much larger and tougher than they were. “Plan nine!” yelled Al. Plan nine was a bad plan. There was a reason they named it after the worst movie known to man. But sometimes, a really bad plan was the best you could do. “Drive backwards really fast, shoot at what’s in front of us, and drop mines” was the one-line entry in their playbook. They emerged from the warehouse, darting straight across the enemy’s line of fire. His shot missed; Liza’s did not. But the monstrous enemy hull shook off that first hit and rumbled forward… straight over the mine Fred had dropped. “Yes!” trumpeted Fred. “I can not believe that worked!” Five down. “Al! Return to northeast! Liza, traverse forward.” Being tricky and wiggly was good, but at the end of the day, there were still five enemy tanks who knew about where they were, and they were converging. Two could shoot them from across the entire map, given half a chance. Fred wiped the perspiration from his eyes. “Al, I think it’s time to revisit the canal evasion!” Al just smiled, not that Liza or Fred could see it. That it was risky wasn’t opinion, it was fact. They had danced around that canal in three previous fights, and had gotten stuck twice. But Al felt confident he had learned just how to handle it, or so he said. So… There was a sickening lurch as the left treads flew off solid ground a full half-second before the right. They were falling and tumbling; Al was laughing like a maniac. Wham! The lopsided impact was decidedly uncomfortable for the riders, and the screams of twisting metal from the undercarriage left little doubt that the suspension was toast. But they were upright, and mobile. “No ten-seventeen today!” cheered Al. On the screen, Fred could see an enemy moving to intercept. “Liza! Traverse right! One three five degrees! He’s approaching right side from behind. Stand by to fire as we exit!” The drainage ditch in which they were hiding ended with a steep upramp. As Golf Echo Two lept from that subterranean cover, Liza fired, scoring another miraculous hit on the tank that was stalking them. Unfortunately, Golf Echo Nine also had a supremely skilled gunner; Golf Echo Two was hit squarely. “Ok, Al, wind her down,” called out Fred. His wounded tank slowed to a halt. “Golf Echo Actual, this is Golf Echo Two. Reporting we are KIA at this time. Congratulations go out to Golf Echo Nine. Nice shooting, Larry!” While six kills actually was not the battalion record for a game of rabbit, the four minutes and nineteen seconds in which they had scored them was. And it was worth noting that while the record for kills was seven, it had been scored by a heavy tank with a penchant for sniping and favorable terrain. However, the previous standing record for a light tank was four kills, and that was Corps-wide. As Golf Echo Two began limping home on its tortured treads, the crew celebrated within, reliving the details of their victories. Later, at the canteen, they basked in the adulation of their fellow Tankers. It would be a long, long time before Liza, Albert, or Fred paid for their own drinks again. They did insist on buying rounds for their “killers:” Larry, Chip, and Alba. The competition of buying each other’s drinks and toasting each other’s triumphs dragged late into the night. Just like in the field simulation, neither crew won. Or perhaps both did.

w00t!!! I won something!!!

You got it! What would make someone do such a terrible thing? And would it work as they intended? Or would the consequences be something unforeseen?

It takes at least two sides to have a story. :)

Sedition Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii The depot sergeant closed the hatch and affixed a single-use lock. “Sierra Foxtrot Twelve, confirmed loaded for simulation. All rounds scanned and approved. Unit secured until operations.” He took the tablet from the adjutant, used his finger to sign, and pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner. “Moving on to Sierra Foxtrot Thirteen.” Ted, Alicia, and Nyun stood beside their tank, watching as the procession moved down the line, inspecting the payload of each tank in preparation for tomorrow’s maneuvers. Fifteen tanks in a single column, the crew of each standing beside. It was an inspiring, and terrible, sight. Tomorrow these crews, these war machines, would test their mettle against fellow soldiers for the first time. “Do you think he did it?” asked Alicia. Nyun eyed the retreating back of the depot sergeant. “Yes. He did it.” “As easy as that?” Nyun shrugged. “The safeguards are there to prevent mistakes. They’re not security.” She paused to light a cigarette. “He did it.” “We’ve worked with these people. Trained with them. Some of them are my friends.” Ted looked at his crewmates, eyes moist with unshed tears. “Are we sure about this?” Nyun laid her hands on Ted and Alicia. “It’s a terrible thing we’re planning. People, good people, are going to die. Most likely we are going to die. Even if we don’t, our lives will be over. But this is an action, a cry for attention that cannot be ignored. Even a government as corrupt as ours has become can’t cover this up. It will be on every news outlet, every social media page. They will have to see that the people oppose their mad grab for power before it’s too late, before we end up in a war that cannot be won.” “COMPANY, DISMISSED!” came over the PA system. Everyone turned towards the canteen, 45 soldiers in a hurry to toast their bravery and inevitable success over the “enemy” tomorrow. Well, 42 soldiers in a hurry to toast their whatever, and three soldiers in a hurry not to be noticed. “Brave faces for now,” Nyun cautioned her teammates as they joined the crowd. “We can weep tomorrow.” Whatever personal torments gnawed at the trio, they gave no outward sign. They pounded backs, and laughed, and drank alongside their friends. Nyun risked one flicker of a warning scowl at Alicia when she proposed “Freedom!” as a toast, but the rest of the company merely echoed “FREEDOM!” And although the night ended early, not one of them slept. Whatever thoughts occupied each of them in their lonely bunks afforded them no opportunity for rest. The next day, as their company rumbled into starting positions, Ted took their tank off course and started to climb the ridge. “Sierra Foxtrot Twelve, this is Sierra Foxtrot Actual. You are out of position. Retreat, and return to formation. Over.” “Sierra Foxtrot Actual, this is Sierra Foxtrot Twelve. That’s a negative. Over.” “Sierra Foxtrot Twelve, say again.” “You heard me, Actual. We’re calling in a solid.” “Nyun, are you ****ting me? You’re calling in a favor to get yourself killed?” “Trust me, Actual. We have a plan. This is going to work. Over.” There was a brief pause. Ted continued piloting their mammoth up the incline. Nyun flipped a switch, releasing a mine as they climbed the narrow ascent. The radio crackled. “Sierra Foxtrot Twelve, this is Sierra Foxtrot Actual. You are cleared to proceed with operational freedom. Good hunting. Over and out.” They reached the top of the ridge then proceeded towards the farthest end, Nyun dropping their small inventory of mines along the way. “Alicia, our first target is Sierra Foxtrot Actual. You take him out and I’ll jam the comms. If you can identify the red commander, take him next. Then fire in order of convenience. Most likely the referees will call for evacuation. Wait for the tanks to converge on the exits, then concentrate your fire there.” “I know my job,” growled Alicia, tears flowing down her face. “I know you do,” said Nyun. “I know you do.” The seconds passed slowly, ticking down to the referees’ message. “All units, all units. Commence operations. Weapons free. Repeat, weapons free.” Almost immediately came the sounds of simunition rounds impacting on the hull. “Steady,” said Nyun as she reached for the microphone. “Sierra Foxtrot Actual, this is Sierra Foxtrot Twelve. We’ve been fragged. Sorry. Over.” “Sierra Foxtrot Twelve, copy. I told you so. Over and out.” Nyun reached in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Plugging the headphone jack into the intercom, she pressed play then toggled the transmit switch. Edwin Starr’s “War” flooded the airwaves, effectively interrupting communications amongst the blue team. “Ok, Alicia.” The cannon spoke, shaking the tank. On the command display, Nyun watched as the marker for Sierra Foxtrot One disappeared. She finally released her hold on her emotions and let the tears flow; there was nothing to be gained by stoicism at this point. Alicia was deadly, efficient, and methodical. Her second shot destroyed a red tank that had been screening the red’s command tank, effectively blocking it in a small cul-de-sac. Her third shot took out red command. The gun spoke again, and again, and again, shattering tanks on both sides. Through tear-blurred eyes, Nyun saw something on her monitor that didn’t make sense. Something approaching, and quickly. What was… “Ted! Rear stick, full throttle! Move!!” She heard the engine rev, felt her mammoth shudder into motion, then there was a terrible impact. The world spun; she was flung this way and that against her safety harness. The lights went out; the noise was deafening. Nyun shook her head. She was disoriented, in excruciating pain, and couldn’t see. Was she upside down? How were Alicia and Ted? Then there was another crash, more intense than the first. Her own screams were tiny, pitiful things compared to the tortured screams of armored steel being crushed.

Cool! Old video deleted, new form submitted!

Hey, if I already submitted my link, but wanted to make a small change to the video, can that be arranged?

I'm trying to roll them out once per week. The next story is done, pending minor editorial changes. The one after that is just a nebulous concept at the moment. I find that this series has taken on a life of its own, and I'm really eager to see what happens next as well!

My shift finger is lazy, and I very often end up capitalizing two letters instead of the intended one. Usually I can see it, but in some cases, the capital looks much like the small. I and i are amongst my capitalization nemeses. And I'm pretty sure I can maneuver myself out of a tight spot before you finish typing that Queen's version! ;)