Yeah, I'm not 100% pleased with how Nester is incorporated. He needs to be there enough to establish that he's significant, but not to take away from Nienna's story. And Nienna's story needed to cover a lot of ground. We'll need to visit both characters again before this is all over...

Nienna Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Nienna was in a wheelchair for Nancy’s funeral. Nester wheeled her into position; she was on heavy medication, so didn’t actually remember the words she had spoken. But she and Nester had written them together days earlier, during the brief intervals while the effects of the narcotics waned and the pain waxed, so she was fairly confident they had been appropriate. She was still in a wheelchair when she and Nester received their commendations. The captain had left the honor of awarding them to Fred; she pretty much remembered the ceremony. But she was by the gods standing when they had her decommissioning ceremony. She wore a training leg that didn’t really fit, and the pain it caused her stump was considerable, but she stood at attention on that stage beside Nester, letting Captain Morrison thank her for her service, letting Fred and her teammates hug her, without flinching once. From there, the hard part started. Losing a limb, learning to live with a prosthetic, teaching herself to walk and run and climb stairs again, those were challenges she understood and could face. Learning to dance again could take months, even years, and she was not daunted by the prospect. But learning to live as a civilian again… In a way, it was absurd. She’d been a civilian for nearly two decades before enlisting. She’d been a soldier for only a few years before being discharged. But during those few years, she had felt part of something in a way that she’d never felt before. Serving the Federated States, actually using her skills to enforce Leadership’s mandates, offering her life to protect those of her countrymen… these were motivations she’d never aspired to, but found suited her quite well. Nienna felt she’d been made to serve. And now, what was she? Just another burden to the taxpayers. So maybe it wasn’t being a civilian that left her feeling so empty, but being uninvolved. Not making a difference. It was Nester who ultimately saved her. He observed that the battles fought within the country determined those that the country fought. And so, Nienna entered politics. She opted not to conceal her loss. That she had been wounded in service was a point of ferocious pride to her; she wanted those who saw her to know what she had done, so her prosthetic was chosen for shock value as much as functionality. It would have looked right at home attached to a killer robot, like those in the Schwarzenegger franchise. Nienna began wearing skirts, never longer than required by decorum, to all business and public functions. She trained in shorts, running laps around People’s Plaza and the Capitol, her titanium limb flashing in the sun. And at her side ran Nester. Her ascension through the conservative party was rapid. She had everything that the incumbents lacked: she was a war hero (although there technically was no war); she was youthful; she was compassionate; she was attractive; and she was honest. Being female didn’t hurt, but she didn’t have the corner on that market. She was also clever and articulate, but those qualities were common enough amongst the career politicians. In a world still celebrating overdue firsts, she was the darling of the media. First amputee Legislator. First veteran to author a successful cross-party bill (health care reform). First female majority party leader. First living war hero to have an elementary school named in her honor (Go, Tankers!). So many firsts that were so late in coming. And quietly, alongside her, stood Nester. Nienna wondered at times whether Nester had actually been as scarred by the battle as the doctors believed. He certainly seemed whole and hale. Had he, she wondered, allowed himself to be discharged so that he could continue serving her? Or was he broken in ways that just didn’t show? She’d never ask, of course. “Nester, did you lie about your injuries to get discharged and stay with me?” Which answer would he give? Which did she want to hear? While Nienna’s role in the Legislature grew, the power of the Legislature itself waned, ceded an act at a time to the ambitious Leadership. The might of the Federated States’ military swelled; the ranks of her disenfranchised also swelled; and the national borders so recently regained during the Liberation were made to seem increasingly insufficient. Not so many years later, she found herself increasingly at odds both with the Leadership and with her own party. Although she still represented the voice of the people, more and more she was ostracized, until she became the lone voice of dissent in a sea of pro-war propaganda. But the Leadership loved her; the fact that there was such a prominent voice of dissent in the Legislature merely proved that they were listening to all input; the fact that she had been rendered ineffectual meant they could keep trotting her out as a sign of all that was right with the system. Thus is was that while other minor party officials often disappeared after issuing anti-Leadership remarks, Nienna stood inviolate. And quietly, alongside her, stood Nester. Although the media still loved her, there was a subtle change in her portrayal over the years. Gone were the headlines about her opposition to the Leadership and its new direction; instead, she was featured for her goodwill tours, her work with the young, her devotion to community. Nienna Muñoz remained a hero to the people, but the people were kept quietly ignorant of what Nienna truly stood for. Her speeches, both in session and in public, continued to be both informed and impassioned, but were now portrayed in the media as the well-intentioned-but-misguided notions of someone who should be revered, but simply was failing to adapt to the changing times. Not so many years later, under the powers granted the Leadership by the Emergency Patriotism Act (an act which Nienna had fought vociferously against), the Legislature was suspended and its members furloughed. Many of the more vocal proponents of the Leadership were offered cabinet positions or other lucrative jobs; Nienna was not. Severed from any meaningful role, dependent now solely on her military disability for income, Nienna quietly shut the doors of her suburban home and let the war begin without her. And quietly, alongside her, stood Nester. Years passed. Although she tried to keep herself isolated, the creeping tendrils of propaganda/news inevitably reached her. Lacking the financial resources to be a complete recluse, Nienna still ran laps around People’s Park and the Capitol in the mornings; she still went to the market. So doing, she continually brushed against well-wishers and former constituents, all of whom were eager to gossip about whatever fragment of propaganda had last brushed their ears, or frantic for a sympathetic ear into which they could complain about the rising cost of bread or the scarcity of razor blades. Televisions and radios played in public places, subjecting her to Leadership-approved snippets and soundbytes. She was aware of the Federated States’ ongoing invasion of its neighbors; she was aware of Leadership’s claims that the war was going well. Nester did keep her appraised of the fortunes and happenings of their friends and former teammates; it was through such filtered knowledge that she followed Fred and Georgie’s respective rises to power. The filtering did nothing to lessen the blow when word of Chip’s death reached her and Nester. Then, one day, there came a knock at her door. Nester, who understood he was to turn away all visitors at all costs, came into her study with a young man in tow. “Ma’am,” began the young man, “please forgive the intrusion. My name is Kevin, and I know someone who needs your help.”

Compared to most of the other 20+ installment stories in the Amateur Writing section?

Let me see... how many people had one of those special bottles?

I'm glad to be a source of frustration! It's my goal to publish once a week until the story is done. So far, I haven't missed a deadline. I'm sure I will; life doesn't respect deadlines. And I need to build up a surplus of at least seven stories before mid-June to cover my summer travels. Currently, I've got zero completed stories in the can. But that's ok! It's why pulp writers earn the big bucks, right?

The Three-Bottle Coup Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Kevin opened the door to the command vehicle and leaned in. “Sir, there’s someone here to see you.” Fred leaned back from the map he’d been scrutinizing with Georgia and several of his respected commanders. “Who is it?” “She won’t give me a name, sir, but she waved a bottle of whisky in my face. It’s the same as the special bottles you two have.” Fred and Georgina made eye contact and nodded. “Ok, everyone, we can finish this tomorrow. You know my overall goals, and you know my general priorities. Bring back some commitments on how you, personally, can help those to mature. And bring back some suggestions on what I need to rethink. Dismissed. Georgina, please stay.” There was a brief commotion as people gathered their possessions and navigated the narrow path to the doorway, dodging Fred and Georgie. Waiting outside was a figure in a cloak and hood, presumably the woman Kevin had mentioned, who pushed her way in as soon as she could. Kevin followed on her heels. “General, allow me to present some lady with a bottle of whisky.” “Thank you, Kevin. You may leave.” Kevin hesitated. “Sir, she’s armed.” Georgina pushed past Fred, placing herself between him and the cloaked figure. Her hand was on the grip of her pistol. “You let an armed person that you don’t recognize in here?” Kevin coughed discreetly. “I never said I didn’t recognize her, sir. I said she wouldn’t give her name. I don’t think you’re in danger, and I can’t in good conscience ask her to disarm.” “Technically,” spoke the figure, “I’m not armed, I’m legged.” She pulled back the lower portion of her cloak, and extended her leg. There, protruding from the cuff of her slacks, gleamed the titanium of a prosthetic limb. “Nienna!” squealed Georgina, leaping forward to take the figure in her arms. Kevin coughed loudly. “I didn’t hear that!” he exclaimed, making a hasty exit and closing the door behind him. Then he opened the door and leaned back in. “By the way, she insisted I set up that terrible joke!” He fled before anyone could respond. “Ok, ok, give me a second…” harrumphed Nienna as she tried to disentangle herself from both Georgie and the cloak. “Ok, now, proper hug!” She and Georgie held each other close, both on the verge of tears. After they finally parted Fred stepped forward, his arms spreading wide. “Stop right there!” Fred complied, looking both confused and ridiculous in his current pose. “You have to give it back.” Fred slowly dropped his arms, his expression changinging from confused to completely bewildered. “Give…. It back?” He looked at Georgina, who shrugged and looked back to Nienna. “Yes, give it back. You took this country. You have to give it back. You don’t get to keep it. Tell me you know that.” Fred chuckled. “Yes, I know that. It was exactly the conversation we were having when you made your entrance. Now can I get that hug?” Nienna bounded forward to wrap herself around Fred, who enthusiastically returned the affection. “Oh, it is so good to see you!” After the hugging and sniffles had subsided, Nienna produced her bottle of whisky from a shoulder bag. She placed it on the situation table in the middle of a map, then took one of the small chairs. Fred and Georgina joined her, Fred putting three coffee mugs on the table. Without a word, Nienna opened her bottle and poured. The three raised their mugs and touched them together; there was, of course, only one first toast that would do. “To Chip,” they said in unison. “So where,” asked Fred, to break the ice, “does one shop for cloak and dagger cloaks these days?” “Go ahead and laugh, but if I’m going to have a future in public service after this is over, I can’t be associated with the renegade who overthrew the government!” “Good point. But color-coordinating the cloak with your dispatch bag is a bit over the top, don’t you think?” chided Georgina. “You two!” exclaimed Nienna, shaking her head while pouring a second round. “So tell me, Generalissimos, how we’re going to get out of this war.” “Simple enough,” said Fred. “We’re going to lose it.” Nienna paused, staring thoughtfully at first Fred then Georgina. She looked down at her drink, drumming her fingers on the table alongside it. “Ok, that is a surprising answer.” “It’s an inevitability. We’re going to lose.” Fred sighed, then continued. “The forces that have allied against us have the resources to wipe us completely off the map, and it won’t be long before they’re organized enough to use them. Whatever gains we’ve made in territory, we have no chance of holding. If we wait until their counteroffensive coalesces, we’re done for. Even assuming they don’t raze the country, we’ll have exhausted our resources, depleted our population, and fought major battles in all of our cities. We’ll be broke, disarmed, and probably spend the next fifty years occupied. Our only hope for survival is to end this war before they manage to start pushing back in force.” Nienna looked to Georgina, who nodded in support. “Fred’s right. We’re screwed. The so-called information that the Leadership has been sharing with the population is propaganda, completely manufactured fairy tales mixed with out-of-context truths. If we continue the war they started, in three years, maybe less, there will be no Federated States. We’ll be disassembled and our territory distributed as compensation to the nations we’ve inconvenienced along the way.” “So what’s your plan?” Fred and Georgina traded a significant glance. “Ok, you don’t have a plan. What do you have?” Fred sipped his whisky. “My coup is only four days old. There’s a lot to manage! But I do have a list of objectives. Keep in mind these aren’t ordered or prioritized yet, but some of them do have to follow a chronology.” Nienna nodded. “Noted.” “Ok. First, a cessation of expansion. That actually is first, and we’ve already undertaken it. Well, as much as we can. There are some battles we’re currently in the midst of that would cost more lives if we tried to disengage, so in those cases, we’re pressing forward to clearly-defined objectives. "On the military side, we want to petition for a ceasefire. Then we’ll begin withdrawing out troops and fortifying a much smaller area. We won’t pull all the way back to the original zone of the Liberation at first; we’ll keep some extra territory and choice cities to use for negotiations later. The hope is to end up with our post-war boundaries still including everything we held after the Liberation. “On the publicity front, we need to start publicizing the fact that we’ve changed management. We can use the members of the Leadership that put us into this war as bargaining chips with the opposing sides; offer to hand them over to stand trial as war criminals. We can and probably should declassify and disseminate as many of their confidential documents as we can find. “On the political front, we need to have some form of emergency election and get civilian leadership up and running again. Then we need to manage the transfer of power from me back to that body. “Assuming we can manage to meet all of those objectives, the last thing to address is what to do about me.” Fred took the rest of his drink as a single shot. “Yep, that’s going to be a sticky one.” Nienna reached over and poured him another. “That’s a pretty notable list of objectives.” Georgina nodded her agreement. “We have many others, but those are the biggest. We’ve actually mentioned you a couple of times recently.” Nienna glared suspiciously at them. “In what context?” Fred raised his hands in a calming gesture. “We recognize that you were a powerful figure in the Legislature before our country became a totalitarian regime. We think that your policies show a consistent pattern of conscientiousness and humanitarian values, and that you have demonstrated repeatedly a commitment to, and concern for, the citizens of this country.” “Let me cut you off there, Chief! You can’t just hand the government over to me!” “Of course I can’t,” agreed Fred. “And I’m not offering to. Should you end up in the Leadership, or in any position other than your current one once the Legislature is reinstated, it has to happen through regular channels. Campaigning and elections and such. But we thought maybe you could help shape the process.” Nienna sipped at her whisky. “I remember this tasting better,” she muttered. Fred and Georgie exchanged amused glances. Nienna looked up at them. “Am I missing something?” “At our first meeting,” responded Georgina, “we both made similar comments. This whisky really isn’t particularly good, but it sure seemed amazing after the mission. We just didn’t have cultured tastes at the time.” “Cultured. Right. We were entry-level boozehounds! This tasted like the nectar of the gods back then.” Nienna sighed. “I do miss my innocence and naivety.” They sat in silence for a moment before Nienna proposed a toast. “To innocence and naivety! May they work in our favor.” The friends sat and drank in silence for a bit before Nienna spoke again. “I need to think, and we need to drink. This is a lot to process, and deciding what role, if any, I’m able and willing to assume is no small thing. I know you don’t have a plan. Do you have a timeline?” Fred nodded. “I hope to be able to step down in a year.” “A year?” Nienna was aghast. “Georgie thinks I’m being optimistic. But to negotiate a ceasefire, manage an ordered retreat and fortification, establish a replacement government, and handle my ultimate surrender; well, each of those things could easily take months. And we don’t dare have me announce a date for my surrender of power then not honor it because things didn’t go smoothly. That wouldn’t sit well with, well, anybody.” Nienna looked intently at Fred. “You’ve been talking about yourself a lot, here, buddy. ‘My coup.’ ‘My surrender.’” Fred extended his glass for another pour. “Yep. And it’s going to stay that way. It’ll be my face on this, and only mine. I want to preserve the lives and careers of as many people as I can, and having good people like Georgie here end up in prison for doing the right thing is not on my agenda.” “Fred, you’re going to end up a hero, can’t you see that?” Fred shook his head. “Maybe to the citizens of the Federated States I’ll end up a folk hero. Even odds on how that shakes out. But to the rest of the world, I will be a war criminal, and one of the biggest. Even if I did have a turn of heart, I was a villain, and will have to be tried. Maybe I’m a better class of scum than the Leadership that started all this, but never forget, I was their tool. Now, I’m a dictator, something the world also hates. And don’t forget I deposed the lawfully-elected government here. Even though I did it for good reasons, there have to be consequences.” Fred paused for a long, slow sip of whisky. “No, this ends badly for me, and I don’t want to share that end with good people who should keep doing good things.” He reached over and took Georgie’s hand; the two shared a tear-filled look. Across the table, Nienna wiped her own eyes, then grabbed to bottle to pour another round. “I need to think, and we need to drink.”

It's a commonplace substitution in colloquial US written english. It wasn't so much intentional as subconscious. I'll probably change it in the novelization, tho... good catch!

Well, in the game, the tanks only operate for 15 minutes at a time! Even on the pro battles, I don't think I've heard of a single battle running more than a few hours. There's no time for support to be needed!

Obviously tanks come with climate control. But there's a difference between moisture collection and reclamation. Is moisture collection critical to a MBT functioning? Of course it is. But distilling it into clean water... tanks aren't meant to be extreme-range autonomous vehicles. They require continual support. A still just isn't a practical use of the very limited space. Even on submarines, where stills are a given to produce drinking water, and operating months in a sealed condition is the norm, reclamation of waste moisture isn't deemed practical. They vent waste to the sea, and just make more clean water. In space on the ISS, all moisture is reclaimed. Cause it's really, really hard to get water to them. And expensive. If you were on Arrakis, and wearing a still suit, then you'd be talking about reclamation!

General Order 24 Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Fred trudged up the shattered street, the wagon squeaking along behind him. He’d bought the wagon earlier that morning - purchased, actually, for the sole purpose of a fairly lengthy drive to the nearest uncontested city. It was red, had golden wings emblazoned on its sides, and was a perfect clone of the one he’d had as a child. He could faintly remember sitting in the wagon, bundled in layers of winter clothing and wrapped in several blankets, as his father pulled him down the sidewalk to go to the park. As the wagon bounced and climbed over the gravel and rubble littering the street, yanking and tugging at his protesting shoulder and elbow, he realized how thoroughly he had underappreciated his father’s efforts. The wheels had not squeaked at first, but it didn’t take too many blocks of being towed over unfriendly terrain under such a heavy load for them to begin complaining. He hoped it would help make the scenario a little more obviously non-threatening. How, he wondered, would the screenplay for this moment read? Scene1: Exterior, Monday afternoon. A war-torn street. FRED, a soldier dressed in field uniform, trudges down the middle of what used to be a four-lane parkway. His path is circuitous; there are bomb craters and debris to avoid. A fallen aspen blocks the way; he must go around. Fred drags a red wagon behind him, a child’s toy, piled high with crates of military foodstuffs and flats of bottled water. The wheels squeak as Fred leans forward to pull it over a large crack. Fred pauses to wipe sweat out of his eyes, the coolness of the day not enough to offset the effort he is expending. Yeah, probably something like that. Fred peered around, compared his surroundings to the carefully-memorized map in his head. The major intersection he wanted was just two blocks ahead. Sighing, he leaned forward against the wagon’s resistance, and resumed walking. The center of the intersection was a crater that plumbed the city’s foundations. Apartments stood on three corners; a shopping plaza on the fourth. A grocery store, several convenience stores, a liquor store, and half a dozen restaurants shared these blocks. If there were refugees hiding in the part of the city, here was a pretty good place to look for them. Fred dropped the handle of the wagon and started looking around for convenient-sized scraps of lumber. There were some advertising signs lying mangled on the sidewalk, a broken counter visible through the shattered front window of one convenience store. A rack of newspapers provided easy kindling; within a few minutes, he had a small fire going. He dragged a few seat-sized pieces of rubble up to serve as makeshift chairs, sparing a moment to criticize himself for having not built the fire near the rocks instead. The sun slid lower in the sky. Fred opened the top crate on the wagon and took out a meal. He pulled the heating tab and set the package on the ground to wait while it warmed, taking the opportunity to pull out and open a bottle of water. Then, balancing the tray on his lap with the skill acquired from years of practice, he peeled back the foil cover and fell to. After dinner, Fred tossed the packaging in the fire, taking the opportunity to add a couple of chair legs and some other smashed furniture, stoking the blaze against the increasing chill of the evening. He found a stick suitable for fire-poking and settled down to wait. His troops had a pool going on how long it would take the first person to show: he had bet on two hours. Roughly half an hour later, he heard the rubble shift somewhere behind him. Well, bother. Lost that bet. Fred stopped stirring the fire and sat up straight, but did not turn around. “We’ve got you covered,” came an anonymous voice. Male, mature, scared but trying to sound tough. “I’m sure you do,” responded Fred. “Take off your pistol and toss it away,” demanded the voice. “Sorry, but no.” There was a beat. “I said, drop your gun!” The voice seemed uncertain, but definitely louder. Fred sighed theatrically, large and loud. “Sir, if you and your friends decide to shoot me, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But my tombstone is not going to read ‘he laid down arms.’ I am not here to be your hostage, I am here to talk. Have a chat. Share some food. Now, I can do all those things with a gun pointed at my back, but I will not do any of them without a token of respect. You can shoot me, walk away, or come join me by the fire.” He paused. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me, though.” Fred resumed poking the fire with his stick. After a few minutes, a man walked gingerly into his peripheral vision, a hunting rifle clutched tightly in his hands. Fred nodded at a small pile of cinder blocks beside him. “Have a seat. Mind the wind, tho. Don’t want the smoke in your eyes.” The man sat down, laying his rifle on the ground away from Fred. “My friends still have you covered,” he warned. “I’m sure they do,” nodded Fred. They sat in silence. Fred poked the fire for a few minutes, then casually offered his stick to the other. “Care to poke?” The man started to chuckle, and then to laugh. Fred joined him. Together, they laughed long and loud. “Oh, you are one cool customer,” gasped the man. Fred said nothing, but pointed at his wagon. “You hungry? Thirsty? Help yourself.” The man stood and went to the wagon. “These all the same?” Fred chuckled. “No, there are three kinds in there: crap, puke, and swill.” “Which one is puke?” “Blue sticker.” “And how’s this work?” “Pull that tab on the bottom. Yank it hard. Ok, now set it down. There’s a chem pack that will heat the food, but it’ll scorch your lap if you hold it while it’s heating.” They sat and waited, staring at the fire. After a couple of minutes, Fred said “It’s probably safe to pick up now.” Fred sat and waited while the other opened the tray. The man took a couple of timid bites, then started shoveling the food in. Fred went back to poking the fire. “That hit the spot. You got a name, Gak?” “Fred. You?” “Call me Chucky.” “Well, Chucky, that wagon is for you. There are three cases of meals, twelve units per case, less what we ate. And four cases of bottled water from a big box retailer. You can take that and walk away any time you like.” Chucky stared at the fire. “That’s a handsome gift.” “I’ve got an even better one. About two kilometers that way,” Fred gestured over his shoulder, back where he’d walked, “I have a truck full of these. One hundred cases in assorted flavors. Two thousand liters of clean water in drums. Full tanks of gas.” Chucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather bag. From this, he produced some loose leaves and rolling papers. Neither man spoke while Chucky proceeded to roll a cigarette. As he pocketed his supplies, Fred held the end of his poking stick in the fire to catch a small blaze, then offered the flame to Chucky, who lit the fag and took a deep drag before offering it to Fred. “Don’t mind if I do,” said Fred. They passed back and forth, each holding his own thoughts. “We Gaks,” said Fred, “well, our intelligence believes that this city is filled with terrorists.” “I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘insurgents,’” responded Chucky. “Thing is, Chucky, that one only gets insurgents in territories one has invaded. We, however, have liberated this area from evil oppressors. Clearly anyone so misguided as to oppose liberation is either a terrorist or a Mong operative.” Chucky nodded. “I see.” “Since the Mongs put up a bit of resistance here, the city took a beating. It’s not really worth salvaging. Now, we’ve evacuated all the loyal repatriates. We set up refugee centers, are providing them all with medical care, and are creating resettling opportunities for them.” Chucky snorted. “Our problem, Chucky, is that now, the only thing left in these ruins are terrorists and Mong operatives. And we simply cannot have that. Wednesday morning, come dawn, the Air Corps is going to firebomb the crap out of this place. They haven’t gotten to do much during this liberation, so they are itching to really do it up right. Once they’re done, my troops and I are going to push through whatever is left standing, neutralizing any opposition.” He took a final drag and threw the stub into the campfire before turning to look Chucky straight in the eyes. “By the end of the week, there will not be anything alive here larger than a rat.” Chucky looked genuinely frightened. “Look, we’re not insurgents, or spies, or anything! We’re just…” “Going to die in two days,” interrupted Fred. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and dropped them on the ground between himself and Chucky. “There’s not much activity to the west of us. A group of healthy people, with enough food and water, could probably walk clear out of the Federated States and into Coalition territory in a few weeks. That border is still open. Or they could head south and present themselves at a refugee camp. Or they could disappear into some of the unsettled areas and hope for the best.” Fred paused. “Probably best to avoid attracting attention, though. My truck has Gak markings. It can pass through this area without challenge.The truck won’t draw attention, but a parade of civilians behind it could. ” “But I’m a college professor! I don’t know anything about… What do I do?” Fred stared into Chucky’s eyes with his hardest expression. “You spread the word. You pick a destination. Vote on it, dictate it, elect a committee. But get moving. You need to be far enough away by dawn Wednesday that the planes on the airstrike don’t see you and decide you’re a column of Mong.” Fred stood up and turned in a circle. “Damn. I seem to have lost my keys.” He sighed heavily. “It really is gonna be a long walk back to camp.” He turned and strode into the gathering gloom, not looking back.

It would have to be enough of a priority that the still was built into the tank. That's possible, but unlikely. Tanks travel with support, and water purification is a pretty big job in even a small army. It has its own group of people and equipment. Even if the tank were of the still-carrying variety, though, only about 2/3 of your body's fluid is excreted through urine. The rest comes out through sweat, mucus, saliva, even the moisture in your breath. Having a urine still would extend the possible length of your stay, but not make it indefinite.

I'm thinking about, once the story has run its course, publishing it as a novel. Putting all the dirty words back in, tweaking a few things to make it seem like I knew what I was planning from Day One, giving it a good once-over. Although I think most of my potential audience consists of people who are reading it as it happens...

Georgie & Fred Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii “A date?” “Yes, a date.” “A date date?” “Yes, a real date.” “A proper date. Not beer in a strip club?” “The Stiletto is pretty far away.” “So a proper date? Tablecloths? Candles? Wine? A wandering violinist?” “Do you even own girl clothes?” Georgina glared. “Yes, a date date. You. Me. No one else. Talking. Companionship. A spectacular after-dinner show.” “But I need girl clothes, right?” “No, actually. You’ll need warm clothes. And a sleeping bag. Earmuffs and mittens.” “An outdoor venue?” “Yes.” “What’s the show?” “The Leonids.” “The Leonids? I don’t think I’ve heard of them. Are they new?” “Old as dirt.” “What’s their thing?” “Light show. It’ll be one of the most visually stunning displays you’ve ever seen. Well, maybe. Weather matters.” “Of course. It’s outdoors.” “So you’ll come?” “DInner and a show? I’d love to!” “Ok, I’ll pick you up around twenty-three hundred Friday.” “Wait, what? Twenty-three hundred?” “This is a late-night event. We’ll probably be out until dawn. You may want to take a bit of a nap.” “Don’t we leave on patrol Saturday morning?” “Yeah, Saturday’ll be a rough day. There’s nothing to be done for it, though. We miss this show, it’ll be a year before we get another chance.” “Annual tradition?” “Something like that.” A few days later, at 22:00 sharp, Fred pulled up in front of the company’s tent city in a small car. “What, not taking the tank?” “Hard to manage without bringing Al and Liza along. Plus, parking.” Fred pointed the car into the darkness and pressed the gas. Soon the camp was falling behind them and they were swallowed by the moonless night, driving down an unlit road through the undeveloped fields that surrounded their current base location. “Is there even a city this way?” “Nope. Not for thousands of clicks.” “Where are you taking me?” “See that big hill over there to the right? That’s the spot.” “There’s a show on a hill in the middle of a field?” “There’s a show on the hill in the middle of the field,” he replied, singing the words. She laughed, and they continued in unison: “There’s a show, there’s a show, there’s a show on the hill in the middle of the field!” Georgina laughed, happy to let Fred have his little secret. She settled down in the seat and contented herself with studying his face in the glow from the dashboard indicators. He had a good face, an honest face, she’d often thought. It was a rare treat to be able to observe him like this while he was busy navigating the car. “Ok, it’s going to get a bit rough,” he said, slowing then turning off the road. The car bounced a bit going over the gravel at the edge of the lane, then smoothed. They were now plowing their way through a field of tall grass, higher than the headlights, which Fred switched off. “I think this is alfalfa,” he said. “This was cropland a few decades ago. The economy tanked and people abandoned the whole area. But the crops keep growing.” It was a bit surreal, the car a submarine, or maybe a boat, pushing its way through a gently waving green sea. Well, she assumed it was green. It had been back when the lights were on. Fred slowed and peered ahead. “What are you looking for?” “I left a chemlite on top of a big rock. That marks the path up the hill. I’m not really interested in smacking into the rock.” Georgina sat up and peered into the night. Together they searched the darkness as the car slowly forced a path forward. “There!” Georgina pointed, then realised the futility of that move. “About twenty degrees to the right.” “Got it. Thanks!” As they approached the hill, the grass grew shallower, and Fred switched the lights back on. A narrow road, more suited to carts than cars, wound up the rocky slope. Fred babied the car up about halfway, where they came to a small level clearing with a tent erected. “Planned this ahead of time, I’m guessing?” “Spent all afternoon on it. I think shepherds used to camp here. It’s on the leeward side of the hill, had a fire ring set up, and no stones worth mentioning. Probably been used for thousands of years.” They left the car and walked into camp. Fred had left embers banked in the fire ring; it was only the work of a few minutes to resurrect a blaze with the timber he had stacked nearby. “So your idea of a special time is to take the infantry woman camping?” chided Georgina. “Did you ever? Before the service?” he asked. “Camp? No, I was a city girl. A blanket in the park for a picnic is about as close as I came to camping. Until, of course, basic.” “Well, this is a little different. Here,” he grunted as he pulled over a cooler, “we have ground meat, some new potatoes, a lovely onion, some carrots, a couple of apples, some salt and pepper. And, of course, tinfoil.” “Oh, of course!” He gave her a disparaging glance. “Hobo meal, your cityness.” “Show me.” “Ok spread your tinfoil like this. Use at least two layers; I like to use three. Make it big. Now, hand me that cutting board. Grab a sani-wipe for me, will you? Thanks. Ok, there are different schools of thought at this point, but I prefer to slice my carrots into little coins. It takes a little extra time, but is worth it, if you ask me. Now we put down a couple of layers of the carrots on the foil, like so. Good. I sprinkle a little salt and pepper at this point. Not too much; we’re going to add more! Ok, next, the potatoes. I like to cut mine into good, bite-sized wedges. A real mouthful, y’know? Then we layer those on top of the carrots. Another light dusting of seasoning. Good. Now, a really thick slice of onion. You don’t want to skimp here; this is a major source of flavor. Break the rings apart and spread them like so. Ok, now we take the meat, and we form it into good sized balls. I prefer a three-bite ball, myself.” Fred had to pause for the inevitable laugh. “Spread the balls like so. Now, take another slice of onion, and one ring goes on each ball. Dust again with salt and pepper. Ok, grab the ends of the foil, and bring them together like this. Fold one edge over the other, that’s good, and roll this down. Right, clear down to the meat. Now grab the open ends like this, and do the same thing. Make sure to fold the bottom over the top, and roll it like so. Otherwise, the juice will leak out and this won’t be delicious.” He leaned over to inspect her bundle. “That’s good.” “So I pass hobo cooking class?” “That remains to be seen. Now the apples. We’re just going to wrap them the same way. Make sure there are no tears in the foil. Good.” Fred stirred the fire. “I’ve had this going half the day; there are some really good coals going down there. We just place these carefully in there...ow! And again...OW! Now we rake more coals over them, and add a couple of pieces of wood.” He sat back and dusted his hands proudly. “There we go. Dinner in two hours!” Georgina looked at him suspiciously. “And what do we do for two hours?” “Come this way!” Fred jumped up and walked into the darkness, following the curve of the hill. Georgina rose and stumbled after him, her eyes dazzled by the firelight. “Easy, watch your footing. Just a little further around the hill,” came Fred’s voice from the darkness ahead. Georgina came upon him sitting on the ground. “Here, sit, I spread several blankets.” Georgina sat beside him. “So where’s the show?” Fred gestured at the heavens. Georgina leaned against him, felt his arm wrap around her shoulders, and snuggled close. “It is pretty.” “It’s perfect. There’s no moon, the sky is clear, and Leo is rising.” “Leo?” “The lion. Look, there, see that one tall tree on the horizon? Ok, now go straight up and just a little left. See that first bright star you come to? Ok, that’s Regulus. His front shoulder is there. Now look to the left and a little down. See that triangle? The three bright ones? That’s his butt and tail. The one farthest to the left is Denebola. Ok, now back to Regulus, and go up. See that arc of stars, the big semi-circle of five? That’s his mane.” “Ok, I can see the mane, and maybe I can see a tail, but I’m having a hard time filling in the rest.” “It’s ok, just keep your eyes on the lion.” Fred shifted and laid back, propping against a sleeping bag. “Come back here, get comfortable. We’re going to be a while.” “Well, it’s two hours til hobo,” she snarked. “Shush, you. Watch the lion.” They lay in silence, each enjoying the other’s warmth. Suddenly a bright speck streaked across the sky, a glowing trail lingering ever so briefly behind. Georgina sat straight up. “Holy ****! Was that a shooting star?” She turned to Fred, wonder on her face. “I’ve never seen one before!” He laughed. “Keep your eyes on the lion, silly! You won’t see them if you’re looking at me!” She settled down beside him. “Will there be more?” “The Leonids are an annual meteor shower. For most of November, the Earth is flying through a comet’s path. That path is full of chunks of rock and ice and whatnot that have broken off the comet over the centuries. It just happens to line up so that those bits of comet crap look like they’re falling from the sky out of the constellation Leo. Thus, Leonids.” “There was another!” “Yeah, that was a good one. As our eyes get more used to the dark, we’ll see even more, some that are just too faint for us right now. It’s hard to predict, but if this is an average night, we could get fifty meteors in an hour.” “Really?” “Really. At the turn of this century, for three years running, this was a mind-blowing show, with counts as high as three thousand per hour. Can you imagine? Like raining fire!” The awe and excitement in his voice caused Georgina to turn her head towards him, then stretch over for a kiss. No one knows how many meteors they missed during that kiss. If it was an average year, probably eight or so. Then they returned to watching the show, holding each other close. Time passed and meteors fell, blazing across the night sky. Some were brief, mere pinpricks of light, barely enough of a flicker to catch. A very few were bright, unmissable, leaving their trail across the sky for several seconds. Most were somewhere in between, but all held Georgina captivated. She couldn’t believe it when Fred started to push her up. “Time to eat,” he said. “I don’t want to miss this,” she complained. “The higher Leo gets in the sky, the more we’ll see. This show should peak around oh-three-hundred. We’ve got plenty of time to stretch, pee, eat, and then get back and get our eyes readjusted. Come on.” They went back to the campsite; the fire had mostly died down. Fred used a shovel to carefully pull out the scorched foil bundles before tossing a couple of small sticks of wood on to brighten the blaze. “It goes without saying, these will be hot. Open one end of the foil just until you see steam, then we’ll let them sit while we have a beer.” Hobo meals may well have been the most delicious things Georgina had ever tasted. Certainly one of the top five. They laughed and supped and finished their beers, then headed back to the darkness. “So how do you know so much about the stars?” “I wanted to be an astronaut.” “What, seriously?” “Seriously. From the time I was old enough to understand what space was, it’s all I could dream about. I had posters of all the planets. My friends in grade school obsessed over augmented-reality monster games. I memorized the names of every moon. They moved on to idolize singers and actors. I idolized astronauts. They could quote sports statistics. I could cite planetary masses and orbital periods.” She felt him shrug. “It never stopped being fascinating. I’d still go out there, given the chance.” “So how did you end up here?” “Well, I never had the aptitude for many of the requisite skills. Math and science are hard for me. No matter how bad I wanted it, I was never going to be good enough to successfully compete for a job that fewer than a hundred people have ever held.” He shrugged again. “Besides, this is better.” “Commanding tanks is better?” “Yep! An astronaut only gets to fly a few times, no matter how good he is. There are very few opportunities to go up, and the radiation exposure is both intense and cumulative. No, with my tank, I get to sit in a confined cabin breathing the same recirculated air as my crewmates nearly every single day. Sometimes for as much as a week without a break!” “A week? Really?” “We did ten days during training. Simulating the situation in a contaminated battle environment. Assuming you still have support personnel running around in hazmat suits, and that they can resupply your consumables cleanly, you could stay in a tank forever. It would ruin your posture, but you’d be alive. Without the support crew, water is the deal breaker. After two weeks, it’s time to start drinking urine.” “Cheery thought.” “What about you?” “I’d just as soon not drink urine, if that’s what you’re asking.” “No, what did you want to be?” “I don’t think I want to tell you.” Fred shook her gently. “Come on. I promise to laugh.” She sighed. “I wanted to teach horses ballet.” True to his word, Fred chuckled. “You wanted to what?” “I wanted to teach horses ballet. I loved watching ballet, and especially the Nutcracker. And I absolutely adored horses. Thought they were the most beautiful creatures in the world. And it just seemed as natural as rain to me that such beautiful, graceful things should have a place in the most beautiful, graceful dance. So I was going to grow up and teach horses to do ballet so I could dance with them and be a star.” “That’s really a beautiful thought.” She smiled, and snuggled closer. “Maybe. But opportunities for horse training are pretty rare in the city. My folks did manage to scrape enough to send me to pony camp for a few summers, and I loved it, but the fascination waned as I grew up. I also tried ballet lessons a few times, but there wasn’t much glamour going on.” It wasn’t a spectacular night for the Leonids, but neither was it a poor night. Certainly it was a source of wonder and amazement for a horse ballet instructor who had never seen a shooting star before, and because of that, it was a night of magic for the astronaut who held her. The skies stayed clear; Leo ascended into the night sky, sprinkling fiery trailers in his wake. And, for a time, the world consisted of two people who couldn’t have been happier.

Called on the Carpet Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii Fred stood at attention. The captain had not told him to do otherwise; in point of fact, the captain had not spoken. His eyes had acknowledged Fred’s arrival; nothing more. The captain lit a cigarette and opened the folder sitting on his desk. Slowly enough that he could have been reading, but steadily enough that it was clear he wasn’t lingering on any specific page, the captain smoked and turned pages. The ash on his cigarette grew steadily longer. Fred sweated, but otherwise, did not move. The captain finished the cigarette before the report. Perhaps, thought Fred as he watched the captain lighting another, he should have made the report more concise. After flipping the last page, the captain neatened the stack of papers, then closed the folder. He sat looking at Fred through the smoke rising between them. “Walk me through this, Staff Sergeant.” “Sir, um…” “Your presence failed to protect the first convoy.” “Yes, sir.” “Your absence failed to protect a second.” “Yes, sir.” “Then you came up with a plan.” “No, sir.” “No, Staff Sergeant?” “That is, sir, the idea wasn’t mine. As I noted in the report, the basic idea came from one of the infantry…” “That would be Private Parviz?” “Frank, sir. Yes. Private Parviz.” “And what qualifies Private Parviz to devise such a strategy?” “He, um… He hunts deer, sir.” The captain inhaled, the cherry glowing red, the ash growing longer. “Continue.” “Sir, we were fairly confident that we were facing a single opponent, and that we had discovered his source of intelligence.” “And you determined that?” “Um, no, sir. As I noted, Chip…” “Is that Sergeant Neufeld?” “Yes, sir. Sergeant Neufeld, that is to say, Chip, put that together.” “The sergeant had access to additional information?” “Um, no, sir.” “The man’s I.Q. is barely normal.” “Sir, he refers to himself as ‘thick as a particularly thick post,’ sir.” “Then how did he see what escaped your attention?” “He, um, well, sir, he has a small notebook. He writes things down. Then he sees things. Um, sir.” Again the captain paused for a drag. Then another. Fred fought the urge to fidget beneath that unwavering stare. Another. “Continue, Staff Sergeant.” “We took a large gamble, sir, that the marauder would lie low for a day or two. We didn’t want to change any of the convoys whose schedules and destinations had already been publicized, and risk tipping him off. We were pretty sure that he was just watching the website for the football field. When we…” “How did you arrive at that conclusion, Staff Sergeant?” “I, um, sir, I didn’t. That was Al, sir, as I said in my report.” “That would be Corporal Jones?” “Yes, sir Corporal Albert Jones. Al. Erm, he, um, observed that the, um, that the scoreboards, well, they were awfully nice, and awfully new. And, um, from that we, um, realized that anyone, sir, anyone with an internet connection could see both footage of the field and the feed from the scoreboards. So we determined to shift the schedules of all convoys not yet posted to, um, well, to keep them from fitting his pattern.” “Pattern, Staff Sergeant?” “To keep them away from places a tank could hide around sunrise or sunset, sir. We didn’t have to change any actual destinations, just shift some times around. Um, sir.” Again the cherry flared. The ash grew. Gods above, did the man ever blink? Fred felt cold sweat dripping down his back, under his arms, his inner thighs. “Continue, Staff Sergeant.” “Sir, well, sir, um, we wanted to really entice him to, um, well, to attack a specific convoy. So we made sure to assemble it in full view of the webcams. We added a few, um, we added, well, what we thought would be high-value targets. There was, um, there was a medical transport loaded with pharmaceuticals, well, not really, they were just crates with pharma stamps on the side, but it looked, well, we hoped…” “You’re babbling, Staff Sergeant.” “Sir! So, um, the medical transport, and a fuel tanker, and a troop transport, all in addition to the regular complement of trucks. Um. Sir. We, um, no, I, sir, I thought that he would, well, that he couldn’t pass up such a target.” “No munitions, Staff Sergeant?” “Um, no, sir. If there had been munitions but no increased security, it, um, it would have really smelled like a trap, sir.” The captain crushed out his cigarette and lit another. The stare never wavered. “Continue.” “Sir, we sent the infantry out to hide in the stretch of woods where we, um, well, where we would have hidden to attack the convoy ourselves. We, um, we knew where the best spot would be, and we had timed the convoy to pass it at sundown. But we couldn’t be sure of, um, of the exact position the enemy would take, or of when he would arrive. So we dropped them off about two days early, and spread them over several kilometers of road. There, um, there is a forest there, a pretty wide patch, so it was a fair bit of ground for each soldier to cover. They, um, they were to patrol and remain unobserved, and to use, um, strict, um, radio silence unless they saw the enemy. “Then we, um, we hid our tanks, Chip’s and mine, about a click diagonally away from that ideal spot, in opposite directions. We, um, we figured that wherever he parked in that stretch of woods, at least one of us would be, um, able to confront him speedily.” Fred was going to pee his pants. He just knew it. And still the captain just sat, and stared, and smoked. Had he blinked, even once? Fred wasn’t sure. “Continue, Staff Sergeant.” “Well, sir, it, um, it worked. Obviously, we had hoped to spot him sooner, but we found him only minutes in advance.” “You found him?” “No, sir, that was Tanya, rather, Master Corporal Saiki. She activated her locator, and Chip and I began converging. Nienna, that is, Sergeant Muñoz, was under orders to slow but continue her direction until the first shot was fired, or until called for, so as not to alert the enemy.” “I see.” The captain remained silent for the space of several drags. Fred could feel his boots filling with cold sweat. “And the cost of this operation, Staff Sergeant?” “Two…” Fred’s voice choked. “Two dead, sir. Nancy, that is, Corporal Colley, the driver of our heavy tank, was killed when a shell penetrated the hull, despite our uparmoring for this mission. The driver of the tanker truck, a private named Tad Wilson, was killed by shrapnel. Nienna, Sergeant Muñoz, was badly wounded in the leg and suffered severe burns. It’s unlikely she’ll be able to return to duty. The gunner, Corporal Nester Coppollo, suffered from smoke inhalation, and is pretty badly traumatized.” “I asked you the cost, Staff Sergeant. One truck. One heavy tank. Hundreds of man hours of logistics to get straightened out after you tampered with the carefully orchestrated convoy schedules. Empty vehicles sent to a meaningless destination. Dollars and cents. Man-hours and fuel. What, Staff Sergeant, was the cost of this operation?” Suddenly Fred wasn’t nervous anymore. He wasn’t scared of a reprimand; he wasn’t sad about the loss of his friends. In the space it had taken the captain to utter those words, Fred had gone cold. He’d been angry before, had lost his temper before, had even gone red-vision, had-to-be-held-down-by-his-friends berserk before, but until that very moment, Fred had never experienced true rage. He took a breath. The captain took a drag. He took another breath. The captain took another drag. Fred took a step closer and leaned forward, placing his fists atop the captain’s desk. “Sir,” he said quietly, his voice the very model of modulated respect, “I believe that I misunderstood the question. Would you please rephrase it for me?” “Step back, Staff Sergeant, and take a seat before you do something that lands you in the stockade and me in the hospital.” Fred slowly took one step back but remained standing at attention. Well, almost. Attention normally had hands alongside the legs, not balled into fists. He felt himself shaking as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. The captain opened his desk drawer and pulled out two glasses and a bottle. Pulling the stopper, he poured two drinks. “Staff Sergeant, I said sit.” The sudden steel that entered the captain’s voice activated involuntary responses Fred hadn’t know existed; he found himself seated with no recollection of having moved. “Staff Sergeant, I like you. You show initiative. You tackle problems in unorthodox yet effective ways. You take good advice, wherever you hear it; you give credit where credit is due; and you take responsibility for your own actions. You value your mission, but not as much as you value your soldiers, and you understand that tools are less important than people. Your head is screwed on straight. Drink that.” Fred obeyed. The whisky tasted familiar. He looked at the bottle on the desk. Hederson Special Reserve! “Yes, Staff Sergeant, I have been watching you.” The captain tossed off his drink and poured two more. “Nienna and Nester will get the best of care, but you are correct. Most likely, both will be discharged. You will select a replacement tank and crew from a list of available units. “And while you are at it, you will select two additional platoons. Team Greenway is now Company Greenway. Staff Sergeant Georgina Olsen is likewise promoted, and will select an additional squad of infantry plus a squad of specialists. Your company will report directly to me.” The captain raised his glass in a toast. “Congratulations, Master Sergeant.”

Thanks! It's nice to feel appreciated! This is the 18th installment. I have 3 more written; solid plans for an additional two; and a kind of nebulous idea for a couple of more arcs. Need to get some stories in the War series, and I haven't even started the Peace series yet!

Hunters All - In COLOUR Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii “Dust on the horizon, Commander!” “That famed Gak punctuality, eh, Deila?” “Now is not the time for levity, Commander,” she replied dispassionately. Auschun bit his lip to keep from laughing. It was rare that one of his crew managed to get a shot in on him, and Deila had definitely scored with that one. It took a moment for him to trust his voice. “Acknowledged, Gunnery Officer. Report.” “First vehicle coming into sight now, Commander. One of their security vehicles. Distance approaching six thousand meters. Speed approximately sixty-five kph. Likelihood to hit low.” Approximately ten seconds ticked past. “Second vehicle clearing the hill. Heavy tank with Gatling gun. We’ve seen her before, Commander.” She frowned. “Sir, the Gaks have increased the spacing between vehicles considerably. I estimate two hundred meters. WIth this formation, and assuming they are in radio contact, it is unlikely we can destroy the entire convoy before they scatter.” “Assessment noted, Gunnery Officer. Fire first at the principal target when it reaches optimum trajectory, then use your discretion. I should think that the tank would be a high priority, though.” “As you say, Commander. Two more vehicles have come into sight, both cargo trucks.” She frowned again. “Commander, last time, that tank had friends.” “Perhaps they are on other convoys,” mused Auschun. “And perhaps not?” suggested Dwight. “Next vehicle in sight. Armored personnel carrier,” came Deila’s report. “This one, too, we have seen before.” “Ah, see, they have distributed their forces throughout the convoy. No doubt the other tanks are still to be seen,” decided Auschun. “As you say, Commander, still to be seen,” said Dwight, not sounding convinced. “Might we not want to be sure?” “Tactical Officer, there will be no active use of scanning until we fire our first volley. We will not risk betraying our position prematurely.” “Sir.” “However, the moment Deila fires, you are authorized to use any and all methods at your disposal as you see fit.” “Thank you, sir.” ***** Tanya carefully raised her head above the fallen tree she had spent the last half-hour crawling towards. Just a few meters away she could clearly see the shape of a tank draped in camouflage netting. She gently lowered herself, then reached for her communicator. Breathing a silent prayer to the gods of her parents, she flicked it on and engaged the locator beacon. Sliding the device under the fallen trunk, she began crawling backwards as quickly as stealth would permit. ***** Fred keyed his mic. “Signal! I’ve got direction at one four six degrees.” "Signal! Oh seven four degrees," came Chip’s reply. "Signal! Two eight two degrees," responded Nienna. Fred quickly lined the three trajectories up on his map. His and Chip’s were more accurate, since they were at known, fixed locations. But adding Nienna’s would give him a better idea where she was as well. “I make it map reference charlie kilo seven seven. Repeat charlie kilo seven seven. Engage Plan Alpha. Chip, you’re farther, start moving now.” Fred sat and chewed his lip. One of two things was going to happen. Either that beast would see Chip’s tank approaching from behind and react, or it wouldn’t. He was gambling heavily that the enemy’s need for stealth extended to avoiding electronic sensing, in which case, both he and Chip should be able to get close enough for good shots before the enemy even saw them coming. If his bet was wrong, though, that thing would skewer Chip’s tank long before it became a threat, and be alerted to their presence as well. A minute passed. Two. Three. Fred’s lip was becoming bloody. The comm crackled "Fred, we’re approaching equal distance. Roll out." “You heard the man, Al! Roll out!” Now, at least, if the enemy did see the danger coming, he’d have to choose which of them to shoot first. ***** “Tanker in sight, Commander. Range six thousand meters. Speed sixty five kph. Likelihood to hit low.” “Let it come, Deila. Let it come.” ***** Al was pushing the tank hard, but the terrain wasn’t terribly smooth, and there was a band of forest to contend with. Fred stared at the slowly-converging points on his display and prayed for the enemy to remain ignorant just for the few minutes they needed. ***** “Target approaching optimum trajectory. Speed constant. Firing.” The tank bucked with the recoil of AP shell speeding from the bore. A brief flash from the forward end of the tanker truck signaled a hit. “Success, Commander. Vehicle disabled. Loading AP.” Even now, in this moment of pure triumph, Deila’s voice never wavered from the profesional. Auschun’s voice, however, was dripping with excitement. “Peter, engage engine!” he yelled. “We go kill a tank next! Dwight, report when ready!” Dwight was flipping the switches that controlled his various detection devices. Cameras, EM detection, radar, thermal… all amazingly sensitive, but all computer-driven and requiring seconds to boot. Deila spoke. “Commander, enemy tank has changed bearing and is heading towards us. Her course is evasive and her profile is small. Likelihood to hit is reduced. She is firing, but I don’t think she actually sees us.” “Take your time and fire when ready, Gunnery Officer,” responded Auschun. The sound of several rounds impacting the hull echoed through the interior of the cabin. “She is lucky, that one,” cursed Auschun. “Deila? Return the favor.” “Firing,” she responded, the tank bucking in time to her announcement. ***** “Holy damn! We’re hit!” cried Nancy, struggling to keep control of the tank. “Ya think?” drawled Nester from behind the gun. “Good news is, I saw the muzzle flash. They’re going to be feeling this now.” “Nancy, we were hit on the front left. Try to keep that side away from him. Another one there and we don’t go home,” cautioned Nienna. “You got it!” “Nester, there is no tomorrow.” “Don’t worry, Commander. We won’t stop shooting until we’re out of ammo or we’ve melted the barrels.” ***** The pounding on the hull became constant and painfully loud. “Deila, report!” “I hit her, Commander, but she still comes. I think they reinforced her with reactive armor. Loading AP. She can’t survive a second hit in the same area.” ***** “Nienna has engaged! Al, if there is anything you can do to shave seconds…” ***** “Nienna’s been hit! Faster, Alba! I don’t care how!” ***** “Commander! Two tanks approaching from behind! Small and fast, contact in thirty seconds!” “Peter! Get us moving! Escape and evade southwest. Deila, kill that tank! Dwight, mines and countermeasures as you see fit.” He spat. “I have lead us into a Gak trap!” ***** “He’s running!” Nienna laughed. “Nancy, intercept! Nester, cut his head off!” Nienna’s tank leaned heavily on its right tread as Nancy banked to meet the enemy’s course. The hail of rounds, a stream of AP mixed with the occasional tracer, gave the appearance of a laser beam walking up the side of the beast and into the turret ring. ***** “Commander, the turret is damaged. Aiming is impaired.” Even under these conditions, Deila’s voice was cool and level. “Peter, take direction from Deila! Gunnery Officer, you are in charge!” “Bank left, Peter. More. Still more. Excellent. Hold. Firing.” ***** The driver’s compartment erupted in shrapnel and flame. Nienna ignored the pain slicing through her right leg and grabbed a fire extinguisher. Nester continued firing, his concentration riveted on the gunsights. ***** “In extreme range!” shouted Larry. “Fire at will!” replied Chip. “Get him off of her!” ***** The tank shook violently, then slued to the left. “Commander, we are hit broadside. I’ve lost steering. I believe we lost a tread.” “One of the replacement links, Commander,” cried Maria. “Then we run in circles, and Deila will impress us with her amazing marksmanship!” “Third tank closing, Commander,” shouted Dwight. ***** “He’s swinging around towards us!” yelled Fred. “Fire, dammit!” Liza obeyed, and scored a miracle hit, but without obvious effect. Fred saw another fireball blossom on the far side of the enemy tank, evidence of another hit by Chip. And, of course, the withering rain of hits from Nienna’s crippled tank continued showering the enemy. Still, it kept turning, the muzzle coming to bear… ***** “Firing. Miss. Loading HE.” ***** “Nancy, can you hear me? I’m coming!” shrieked Nienna as she fought to put down the flames filling the driver’s compartment. Behind her she heard Nester choking on the acrid fumes and cursing as he continued pounding the enemy tank: “Die you scum, die!” ***** “My friends,” said Auschun, his voice raised over the nearly-deafening din of the Gatling gun’s merciless assault chewing away their armor, punctuated by the impacts of shells from the other two tanks. “We go now to glory. We have done mighty things, and can stand proudly amongst our ancestors. We will be…”

I toyed with the idea of color-coding this, breaking out of my old-school predilection for clean text. But, at least to these old eyes, it was more distracting. Maybe I'll copy the above and repost it as a comment, colorize it, and see what the reaction is. Honestly, the asterisk thing never occurred to me! I knew there would be some ****ing that needed to be done, but didn't think how that would interact with my choice of perspective-shift-signal.

That's a quality guide!

You can find out just as soon as today's post gets approved! :rolleyes: See what I did there? Using your own anticipation as motivation? See, it's funny cause... oh nevermind!

Hunters All Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii “Dust on the horizon, Commander!” “That famed Gak punctuality, eh, Deila?” “Now is not the time for levity, Commander,” she replied dispassionately. Auschun bit his lip to keep from laughing. It was rare that one of his crew managed to get a shot in on him, and Deila had definitely scored with that one. It took a moment for him to trust his voice. “Acknowledged, Gunnery Officer. Report.” “First vehicle coming into sight now, Commander. One of their security vehicles. Distance approaching six thousand meters. Speed approximately sixty-five kph. Likelihood to hit low.” Approximately ten seconds ticked past. “Second vehicle clearing the hill. Heavy tank with Gatling gun. We’ve seen her before, Commander.” She frowned. “Sir, the Gaks have increased the spacing between vehicles considerably. I estimate two hundred meters. WIth this formation, and assuming they are in radio contact, it is unlikely we can destroy the entire convoy before they scatter.” “Assessment noted, Gunnery Officer. Fire first at the principal target when it reaches optimum trajectory, then use your discretion. I should think that the tank would be a high priority, though.” “As you say, Commander. Two more vehicles have come into sight, both cargo trucks.” She frowned again. “Commander, last time, that tank had friends.” “Perhaps they are on other convoys,” mused Auschun. “And perhaps not?” suggested Dwight. “Next vehicle in sight. Armored personnel carrier,” came Deila’s report. “This one, too, we have seen before.” “Ah, see, they have distributed their forces throughout the convoy. No doubt the other tanks are still to be seen,” decided Auschun. “As you say, Commander, still to be seen,” said Dwight, not sounding convinced. “Might we not want to be sure?” “Tactical Officer, there will be no active use of scanning until we fire our first volley. We will not risk betraying our position prematurely.” “Sir.” “However, the moment Deila fires, you are authorized to use any and all methods at your disposal as you see fit.” “Thank you, sir.” ***** Tanya carefully raised her head above the fallen tree she had spent the last half-hour crawling towards. Just a few meters away she could clearly see the shape of a tank draped in camouflage netting. She gently lowered herself, then reached for her communicator. Breathing a silent prayer to the gods of her parents, she flicked it on and engaged the locator beacon. Sliding the device under the fallen trunk, she began crawling backwards as quickly as stealth would permit. ***** Fred keyed his mic. “Signal! I’ve got direction at one four six degrees.” “SIgnal! Oh seven four degrees,” came Chip’s reply. “Signal! Two eight two degrees,” responded Nienna. Fred quickly lined the three trajectories up on his map. His and Chip’s were more accurate, since they were at known, fixed locations. But adding Nienna’s would give him a better idea where she was as well. “I make it map reference charlie kilo seven seven. Repeat charlie kilo seven seven. Engage Plan Alpha. Chip, you’re farther, start moving now.” Fred sat and chewed his lip. One of two things was going to happen. Either that beast would see Chip’s tank approaching from behind and react, or it wouldn’t. He was gambling heavily that the enemy’s need for stealth extended to avoiding electronic sensing, in which case, both he and Chip should be able to get close enough for good shots before the enemy even saw them coming. If his bet was wrong, though, that thing would skewer Chip’s tank long before it became a threat, and be alerted to their presence as well. A minute passed. Two. Three. Fred’s lip was becoming bloody. The comm crackled “Fred, we’re approaching equal distance. Roll out.” “You heard the man, Al! Roll out!” Now, at least, if the enemy did see the danger coming, he’d have to choose which of them to shoot first. ***** “Tanker in sight, Commander. Range six thousand meters. Speed sixty five kph. Likelihood to hit low.” “Let it come, Deila. Let it come.” ***** Al was pushing the tank hard, but the terrain wasn’t terribly smooth, and there was a band of forest to contend with. Fred stared at the slowly-converging points on his display and prayed for the enemy to remain ignorant just for the few minutes they needed. ***** “Target approaching optimum trajectory. Speed constant. Firing.” The tank bucked with the recoil of AP shell speeding from the bore. A brief flash from the forward end of the tanker truck signaled a hit. “Success, Commander. Vehicle disabled. Loading AP.” Even now, in this moment of pure triumph, Deila’s voice never wavered from the profesional. Auschun’s voice, however, was dripping with excitement. “Peter, engage engine!” he yelled. “We go kill a tank next! Dwight, report when ready!” Dwight was flipping the switches that controlled his various detection devices. Cameras, EM detection, radar, thermal… all amazingly sensitive, but all computer-driven and requiring seconds to boot. Deila spoke. “Commander, enemy tank has changed bearing and is heading towards us. Her course is evasive and her profile is small. Likelihood to hit is reduced. She is firing, but I don’t think she actually sees us.” “Take your time and fire when ready, Gunnery Officer,” responded Auschun. The sound of several rounds impacting the hull echoed through the interior of the cabin. “She is lucky, that one,” cursed Auschun. “Deila? Return the favor.” “Firing,” she responded, the tank bucking in time to her announcement. ***** “Holy damn! We’re hit!” cried Nancy, struggling to keep control of the tank. “Ya think?” drawled Nester from behind the gun. “Good news is, I saw the muzzle flash. They’re going to be feeling this now.” “Nancy, we were hit on the front left. Try to keep that side away from him. Another one there and we don’t go home,” cautioned Nienna. “You got it!” “Nester, there is no tomorrow.” “Don’t worry, Commander. We won’t stop shooting until we’re out of ammo or we’ve melted the barrels.” ***** The pounding on the hull became constant and painfully loud. “Deila, report!” “I hit her, Commander, but she still comes. I think they reinforced her with reactive armor. Loading AP. She can’t survive a second hit in the same area.” ***** “Nienna has engaged! Al, if there is anything you can do to shave seconds…” ***** “Nienna’s been hit! Faster, Alba! I don’t care how!” ***** “Commander! Two tanks approaching from behind! Small and fast, contact in thirty seconds!” “Peter! Get us moving! Escape and evade southwest. Deila, kill that tank! Dwight, mines and countermeasures as you see fit.” He spat. “I have lead us into a Gak trap!” ***** “He’s running!” Nienna laughed. “Nancy, intercept! Nester, cut his head off!” Nienna’s tank leaned heavily on its right tread as Nancy banked to meet the enemy’s course. The hail of rounds, a stream of AP mixed with the occasional tracer, gave the appearance of a laser beam walking up the side of the beast and into the turret ring. ***** “Commander, the turret is damaged. Aiming is impaired.” Even under these conditions, Deila’s voice was cool and level. “Peter, take direction from Deila! Gunnery Officer, you are in charge!” “Bank left, Peter. More. Still more. Excellent. Hold. Firing.” ***** The driver’s compartment erupted in shrapnel and flame. Nienna ignored the pain slicing through her right leg and grabbed a fire extinguisher. Nester continued firing, his concentration riveted on the gunsights. ***** “In extreme range!” shouted Larry. “Fire at will!” replied Chip. “Get him off of her!” ***** The tank shook violently, then slued to the left. “Commander, we are hit broadside. I’ve lost steering. I believe we lost a tread.” “One of the replacement links, Commander,” cried Maria. “Then we run in circles, and Deila will impress us with her amazing marksmanship!” “Third tank closing, Commander,” shouted Dwight. ***** “He’s swinging around towards us!” yelled Fred. “Fire, dammit!” Liza obeyed, and scored a miracle hit, but without obvious effect. Fred saw another fireball blossom on the far side of the enemy tank, evidence of another hit by Chip. And, of course, the withering rain of hits from Nienna’s crippled tank continued showering the enemy. Still, it kept turning, the muzzle coming to bear… ***** “Firing. Miss. Loading HE.” ***** “Nancy, can you hear me? I’m coming!” shrieked Nienna as she fought to put down the flames filling the driver’s compartment. Behind her she heard Nester choking on the acrid fumes and cursing as he continued pounding the enemy tank: “Die you scum, die!” ***** “My friends,” said Auschun, his voice raised over the nearly-deafening din of the Gatling gun’s merciless assault chewing away their armor, punctuated by the impacts of shells from the other two tanks. “We go now to glory. We have done mighty things, and can stand proudly amongst our ancestors. We will be…”

Clearly, to be a shining example of peaceful conflict resolution and harmonious co-existence, right?

This is installment 2 of a 6-installment arc. It could be you'll get your wish! ;)

Licking Wounds Fanfic in the Tankiverse by Hippin_in_Hawaii The farm truck was parked near the base of one of the abandoned silos. Branches and debris were piled about it as if it had been sitting for years. Dwight was there; that was good. “Commander, the steering is very sloppy.” Auschun didn’t need Peter to tell him that. He could feel the uncharacteristic wiggle in the tank’s course, hear the higher-pitched elements in the squeal of the treads, and see the pronounced worry on Maria’s face. He reached out and stroked the inner wall of the hull. “Only a few hundred meters more, my love,” he whispered. “Only a few hundred meters.” “If we can make it to the warehouse at the far side, at least we will be concealed while we make repairs,” said Maria. “It seems Dwight shares your assessment, Maria. Look, he opens the doors for us!” cried Peter. The tank scarcely fit through the doors, but the interior of the former warehouse was amply spacious. Dwight had a small fire blazing cheerily in one corner. “My friends, you are so very late!” called Dwight. “I was beginning to worry, and to think I should drink all the beer myself!” “We were forced to return more slowly than expected,” said Auschun, climbing from the tank. “We had to ford a stream, and the bottom was very rough, with many stones and boulders. We feared that we had damaged the repairs to the treads, and indeed, it seems we are fortunate to have made it here.” “Well, the fire is warm, the beer is cold, and I have beef ready to be cooked!” announced Dwight to a round of tired cheers. “I will do inventory and maintenance while the food cooks, Commander,” said Deila. “You may do inventory, but you will defer maintenance until the morning, Gunnery Officer. You will drink beer, and eat meat, and sit with the rest of us.” “As you wish, Commander,” smiled Deila. They gathered around the fire. Auschun felt it proper to make a small speech. “It is strange, is it not, our lot in this?” The crew nodded and grunted in agreement. “Here we are, our tank damaged on maneuvers, abandoned by our company when they were recalled. Left to make our way as best we could with what they could leave us from their own pockets. Our mission changed from training to survival in the blink of an eye. And yet, here we are, triumphant!” His crew cheered; beers were raised. “We are the most successful unit in this conflict! We have struck the Gaks five times, and we will strike them more!” They roared with approval. “When the histories are written, our names will figure prominently! We are heroes of our homeland!” It was genuinely impressive how much noise five soldiers, when properly motivated, could make! There was meat, seared on a grate over hot coals, with plenty of salt and pepper for seasoning. The beer, although thin Gak swill, was indeed cold, and Dwight had brought much. The crew laughed and feasted and sang songs of the homeland through the night, greeting the rising sun the next day. Remains of the steaks served as breakfast. Maria came looking for Auschun a few hours later. “Commander, it is as we feared. Each of the replacement links we fabricated has deformed badly. With all of Peter’s skill, we may make ten kilometers before the first fails.” “We can make repairs, yes?” “Only just, Commander. We did not expect to have to replace them all at once; we have only as many links as we will need.” “And how long will this take?” “Two days, Commander. More, if we take the time to repair or fabricate new replacements, assuming we can find the steel.” Auschun waved at the structure around them. “Steel we have in abundance, Marie. Very well. It would be unwise for us to continue with no provision for repair; we will stay here for three days. You have the authority to use the crew as you see fit.” Maria headed back to the tank, pausing to awaken Peter. Auschun caught Dwight’s eye and waved him over. “I assume, since we had such a feast last night, that you were also successful in obtaining our fuel?” Dwight nodded, but looked concerned. “We have three thousand liters, sir, but the cost was extremely high. The conversion from our currency to Gak prices is not favourable. We now have insufficient cash to purchase the fuel it would take to drive the truck to the fuel depot and return.” “Thank you, Tactical Officer. Please, lend your assistance to the repairs.” Auschun pulled out a cigarette and walked into the morning sun as he lit it. This was troubling. His best estimates had been that their funds would purchase three times that amount of fuel, even allowing for inflation. Obviously, his grasp of Gak economics was flawed. The fuel Dwight had obtained would fill the tank only one and a half times, plus whatever was left over from their last mission, which was little enough. Were he to stay close to this location, he could engage in four, perhaps five more strikes before being immobilized, but such a consistent pattern would surely hurry the day that the Gaks found him. Were he, instead, to continue ranging far afield to intercept targets, it wasn’t certain he’d have the fuel for two missions. He took a deep drag, and pondered, then decided that such pondering was futile. The tank would be under repair for two days. Much could happen in two days. Perhaps the Gaks would find them. Perhaps the Gaks would give up and go home. Perhaps the Gaks would reroute all of their convoys to avoid the area. Perhaps his own people would return in force. One could not make decisions easily with so many unknowns. One decision he could revisit, though, was that of taking a day to fabricate spare links. With so little fuel available, it seemed unlikely they would travel far enough to need replacements. “Tactical Officer,” he called as he strode into the warehouse. A muffled “Sir” came from beneath the tank. Auschun knelt at the front of the tank, bending to look underneath. Dwight was there, using a crowbar to loosen one of the damaged links. “Our intelligence from the Gaks is limited, yes?” “They post the departures only forty-eight hours in advance, Commander.” “In your estimation, do we need to continue monitoring their movements while we are immobile?” “The risk of discovery is small, but present, Commander. I would advise we wait until the tank is operational.” “Very well.” Auschun continued walking, heading nowhere in particular. The rationing of ammunition would serve no further purpose; he would allow Deila to demonstrate her skill on entire convoys from now on. Concealment became a short-term objective rather than a long-term one; they need not retreat to refuges, nor pass up targets of opportunity. They would move from one assault point to the next, camp and wait, decimate the convoy, and continue. If the Gaks found them, they would fight. If, rather, they exhausted their resources, they would set fire to the tank and begin the long walk home. Either way, it seemed this mission was coming to a close. Auschun shook his head. Again, he was making plans for circumstances that may well never happen. Best to focus on today and tomorrow, getting the tank operational. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers to extinguish it, carefully grinding the fallen cherry into the ground with his boot, then returning the unsmoked portion to the nearly-empty pack in his pocket. “Maria,” he called, striding back to the tank, “how may I assist?” Replacing a link in a tank tread is an awful job. The links are heavy, sharp-edged, unforgiving puzzle pieces of steel. They’re caked with grease and dirt; there are shards of rock, wood, even glass wedged in the gaps between them. Damaged edges produce steel splinters. The pins that hold them together are driven in under pressure and are devilishly tight, requiring much pounding and prying and straining to loosen and remove. All of this must be done while reaching into terribly confined spaces, sometimes lying underneath the tank, sometimes trying to squeeze between the tread and the body. And the tank itself must be nudged forward and backwards in tiny increments to position the damaged links just so, in spots where they are not under tension. Done in a garage, with the proper tools and proper hydraulic supports, it would be an awful job. Done in the field, with hammers and crowbars, it was brutal. Still, two days later, with the crew all nursing various sprains, bruises, and in desperate need of showers, the job was nearly done. Only one link remained, so Auschun sent Dwight to access the Gak’s schedule and begin planning their next attack. He was using a hammer and dowel to drive a pin home when Dwight erupted from the hatch in excitement. “Commander! Commander! We are favored of the gods!” Auschun rose from his knees, handing the hammer to Peter. “Show me.” He followed Dwight into the tank and looked over his shoulder at the display Dwight was using to surf the web and read the community webpage where the Gaks so thoughtfully posted their information. “See, Commander, there is a convoy leaving tomorrow afternoon. It will pass an excellent point of attack approximately one hundred twenty kilometers to our northeast as the sun is setting. We can easily move there tonight, camp tomorrow, and attack.” “This is good, Dwight, but not the miracle I expected. You seem as thrilled as a young child with a new toy!” “Look, Commander,” said Dwight, vibrating with excitement. “Unlike the others we have attacked, this convoy is assembling on the actual football field. We can observe it using their webcams.” Dwight clicked the link. There, lining up in the middle of the former field of play were several trucks, a pair of APCs, and a fuel tanker. “Fuel, commander! Fuel! If we can seize that truck…” “...our mission can continue!” finished Auschun. He raised his head to the open hatch. “Gunnery Officer! Report at once!” There was a sound of frantic scrambling from beneath the tank, followed by feet clamoring over the hull. Deila dropped in. “Sir!” “Deila, observe. We may have an opportunity here. Can you disable that truck without damaging the cargo?” “An armor piercing round through the engine block will certainly disable it. The vehicle may or may not catch fire. If it does not, the cargo will be fine.” “Your best estimation, gunnery officer?” “It is a near-certainty that I can disable the vehicle. The chance of fire, though, may be one in three.” Auschun nodded. “And can you destroy the remainder of the vehicles without damaging the tanker further?” “Most assuredly, Commander,” said Deila with relish, her teeth flashing in a fierce smile. “Most assuredly!” “Excellent. Return to the repairs, and inform the others that we roll out as soon as the sky is dark.”

Mahalo for your service!

This all started with A Helluva Thing. When I wrote that, then Graduation Speech, then Stuck, I was just spinning individual stories. But Tweezers made a comment that he would be disappointed if it didn't become a series, and I started to look for ways to weave the threads together. Chutzpah was actually the first story written after I decided to make a cohesive narrative, but I've gone back and made use of details I placed in the earlier stories to develop the universe and the plot arcs. Chip's tiny notebook is there, but the reference to the smashed bottle of whisky in his tank actually spawned the idea for The Whisky Occupation. And that story is integral to the whole Coup series, not to mention the relationship between Georgie and Fred. So, yes, I retconned my first three stories here into the larger picture. But I'm curious why you think A Helluva Thing doesn't reference tanks.