Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

After grabbing her brain bucket and fastening the strap, Mac stuck her head up through the forward air-guard hatch. The air felt cool after the warmth of the Stryker’s cargo bay, gunmetal-gray clouds hung low over the northern horizon, and green fields lay all around. It felt good to escape the steel box.

The DOOBYhad paused so that the tank crew could exit through the back. The ramp came back up as the STEEL BITCHpulled alongside. The rest of her Strykers were passing through the minefield and spreading out to either side of her.

“This is Marauder-Six,” Mac said. “Kill your IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) systems and switch to the multispectral combat beacons. Friendly vehicles are blue. You can shoot at everything else. Watch your aim, though… We can’t afford to overshoot, undershoot, or miss. Keep it tight. Over.”

Mac heard a flurry of clicks as she turned to scan the area ahead. Confederate Strykers were emerging from the distant tree line—and Mac was reminded of the roles that cavalry played during the first civil war. They’d been used for reconnaissance and for harassing the enemy as they tried to retreat. But above all else, the cavalry had been called upon to fight delaying actions. And that’s what the Confederates were doing now.

Based on the fact that the rebs were coming out in a line abreast, Mac figured their CO was planning on a largely static long-range duel in which each formation would try to pound the other into submission. That was stupid. A Stryker’s greatest asset was its mobility. And there was no way in hell that Mac was going to sit still while the enemy shot at her. “Lay smoke!” she ordered. “And get in there!” The words were brave enough… But her mind was filled with doubt. What if she was wrong about the enemy’s intentions? There were no do-overs in war.

Each vehicle was equipped with four M6 smoke dischargers. And since there were four tubes in each discharger, a vic could launch up to sixteen grenades. Mac figured that would be enough to do the job. She made a quick count. The rebs had fourteen vics to her eleven! Not the best odds, but what was, was.

A gray fog closed in around the battlefield as the Union Strykers raced toward the rebel line, passed through the gaps between the Confederate vehicles, and turned. That was the plan the TCs had agreed to follow if the battalion was faced with a line abreast. But it was the full extent of what Mac could do. The rest was up to the individual truck commanders, like the corporal in charge of the DOOBY DO.

His name was Roy Rogers. His parents thought it was funny. But Rogers had been taking shit for the moniker ever since he entered grade school, and eventually acquired the handle “Cowboy.” It suited him well. Part of that had to do with his Gary Cooper good looks. But the nickname referenced Rogers’s run-and-gun persona, too, and it matched the situation. Because there wasn’t going to be enough time for Mac or anyone else to give Cowboy orders.

Nor would it be possible for Cowboy to choose targets. His gunner’s name was Maggie, or “Mags.” And because of the thick smoke, Mags would have to use thermal imaging to “see” the vehicles around her, sort them out, and reserve her fire for the enemy.

Under normal conditions, Mags would have been able to use the standard IFF system for that. However, since the reb vics had the same IFF system, Mac wasn’t sure whether the enemy Strykers would appear as friends or foes. She hoped the “outlaw” multispec beacons would not only provide her people an important edge but prevent friendly-fire incidents, too.

The key to winning the battle would be individual initiative and judgment. Who would prove to be better at that? The rebs? Or her ex-cons and their Marine Corps buddies? They were about to find out. Action was an excellent antidote for the fear that crept in whenever there was nothing to do. But being up top, Mac had nothing to rely on other than what her eyes could see, and was grateful for her goggles as the smoke swirled around her. Suddenly, she was a machine gunner instead of a battalion commander, and that was no easy task.

A Stryker with a 105mm cannon appeared to her right, and knowing that none of her vehicles had a long gun, Mac fired the LMG (light machine gun) at it. The relatively light 5.56X45mm rounds couldn’t penetrate the other vehicle’s armor, but rebs would hear the bullets ping their hull, and the sound might distract them.

Then Cowboy turned to the left and Mags began to fire the DOOBY’s 40mm grenade launcher at a target Mac couldn’t see. She could hear , though… And a hellish symphony it was. Mac heard the crack of grenades exploding, as well as the intermittent chug, chug, chug of multiple .50 caliber machine guns, overlaid with the harsh bang, bang, bang sound produced by the LAVs’ chain guns.

The DOOBYthrew Mac sideways as Rogers made a tight turn. An enemy Stryker appeared out of the smoke with a Confederate flag flying. Was that a matter of pride? Or a way to identify the unit? Mac fired at it, watched the vic veer away, and saw another truck in the distance. It was flying a flag, too… So maybe the enemy CO harbored the same concerns she did.

Something slammed into the DOOBY’s right flank and lifted the truck up off that set of wheels before gravity prevailed. A 105 round? If so, Mac was lucky to be alive as Cowboy put his boot down. The response was slow. Was that due to the dozer blade mounted up front? Or had the DOOBYbeen damaged? Mac feared the latter, and Rogers confirmed it. “Two of our right-hand wheels were destroyed, Major… So we’re limping a bit.”

“Do the best you can,” Mac told him. “We’ll make it.”

Because Strykers have eight-wheel drive Mac figured that the DOOBYcould continue to mix it up on a limited basis. And the more moving targets the rebs had to deal with, the better.

Mac was forced to duck as a vic pulled alongside and fired its fifty. The big slugs were hammering the hull, and eating their way in, when she heard a muffled explosion. A triumphant shout followed: “ Semper fi , motherfuckers!”

And when Mac stuck her head up again, she saw why. Because there, in the DOOBY’s wake, was a burning Stryker. An LAV was doing victory laps around it as a Marine fired his LMG into the wreckage.

The smoke was drifting away by then… And Mac was desperate to see what had taken place. Had the battle been won or lost? Gradually, as DOOBYcircled the battlefield, a picture started to emerge. Nine of the enemy machines were little more than burning hulks, and a handful of rebs stood with their hands raised. The rest of the Confederate vehicles were nowhere to be seen and had presumably withdrawn.

That was the good news. The bad news was that two of her vics had been destroyed, two of her soldiers had been wounded, and three were dead. Some machines, like the DOOBY, were badly shot up. Those realities were enough to counteract any feelings of jubilation that Mac might have otherwise felt. “This is Marauder-Six,” she said over the radio. “You are the best group of crazy people that ever wore whatever uniform you’re wearing. Hooah! ”

What came back over the radio was a mutual “Hooah,” intermixed with “Oorahs” from the Marines. Mac couldn’t help but grin. The Marauders might be a badly mismatched bunch, but they were hers, and she was proud.

Mac was kneeling next to Cowboy, and they were inspecting one of the DOOBY DO’s badly mangled wheels, when Colonel Walters arrived. Engines roared as Marine amtracks churned past them. Walters was forced to shout in order to be heard. “Good job, Major! I watched the whole thing via our drones. What I could see through the smoke, anyway. Strykers on Strykers! That was a battle for the textbooks.”