Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Mac watched the idea sink in. Walters was tired, so it took her a moment to process it. But it wasn’t long before her expression started to brighten. “Holy shit! I like it… But the explosion would destroy the tank. And what about the driver?”

“I’ll be in a Stryker,” Lang told her. “Operating the tank by remote control and following along behind it.”

“That’s right,” Mac agreed. “And once we blow the door, my gunner will fire over the remains of the tank and into the compound as troops rush the entrance.”

Mac could see the wheels turning as Walters began to expand on the idea. “Maybe we’ll use two bombs… Let’s see what the experts say. And we can launch a feint at the west side of the berm while the tank goes in… That should draw some of the bastards away from the gate.”

Mac grinned. “So, it’s a go?”

“Hell yes, it’s a go. Make it happen.”

Thus began a long, sleepless night. There was a lot of work to do. It was necessary to stretch a huge tarp over the tank to conceal it from rebel drones, Captain Wu had to obtain the necessary bombs from the air force, and a team of mechanics were ordered to fabricate the bulletproof boxes that the explosive charges would ride in. Because if the bombs were detonated early, the entire effort would be for nothing.

Mac collapsed on her cot just after 0300 and got up three hours later. After a quick trip to the latrine, a mug of coffee, and a can of peaches, it was time to inspect the tank.

Twin boxes were mounted over the roller assemblies. What would the Confederates make of them? Would they assume the boxes contained weights? Which were part of a strategy to detonate mines? Or would one of them divine the truth? Fortunately, it didn’t matter so long as the modified M1 managed to complete its mission.

Other changes were apparent as well. Messages had been spray painted onto the tank. They included, “To the Confederacy with love,” “For Mindy,” and “Payback is a bitch.”

The nameless machine had been transformed into a vessel for the brigade’s sorrow and hate. Was that a good thing? What if the attempt failed? But it was too late for such concerns. Colonel Walters had a weapon, and she was going to use it.

The area was suffused with a sense of grim purpose as engines started, sergeants ran last-minute gear checks on their soldiers, and Mac made her way up the ramp and into the STEEL BITCH. She couldn’t stand in the air-guard hatch this time. Not initially.

As soon as the modified M1 tank appeared and began to make for the gate, the rebs would throw everything they had at it. And once the Abrams blew, shrapnel would fly every which way. Like it or not, Mac would have to sit in the cargo compartment and sweat the trip out.

Sergeant Lang was already aboard, as was Perez, who was busy painting her nails. Mac couldn’t figure out if Perez was brave or simply crazy. One thing was for sure, however… The army didn’t allow soldiers of either sex to have painted fingernails. But, given the fact that Perez might be dead within half an hour, Mac decided to cut her some slack.

Provo and her gunner were running systems checks as Private Yancy entered the cargo bay. Mac knew that he’d been sent to ensure that Walters could communicate with the Stryker even if its com system went down.

“I brought you this,” Yancy said shyly as he offered a thermos. “It’s full of coffee. Just the way you like it.”

That was when Mac realized that Yancy had a crush on her. Was it a case of hero worship? Or did the RTO have a thing for older women? It didn’t matter. “Thanks, Yance… That was very thoughtful. Some caffeine would hit the spot.”

Yancy looked pleased, and Mac was sipping coffee when the order came down. “Thunder-Six to Marauder-Six. Go get ’em. Over.”

Mac made eye contact with Yancy. “Tell her we’re on it.” Then, after turning to Lang, “You heard the lady… It’s time to rock and roll.” Lang nodded and went to work.

There was a pause while the M1 got under way. Then, once the correct interval had been established, Provo put the STEEL BITCHinto motion. Both vehicles were traveling at about 10 mph, which meant that it would take fifteen minutes to reach the oil reserve and approach the gate.

Time seemed to stretch as the modified tank churned through the mud. How many times? Mac wondered. How many times will I do this before my number comes up? I hope it’s quick.

Then bullets began to ping the M1’s armor, mortar rounds fell, and geysers of soil flew up into the air. Lang was talking to his tank. “You can make it, hon… A little to the left, that’s right babe, you’re looking good.”

What were the rebs thinking? Mac wondered. Maybe they assumed that the Abrams was going to be used as a self-propelled battering ram. And that wasn’t far from the truth. But regardless of the M1’s specific purpose, the enemy knew the machine was a sixty-ton threat, so they threw everything but the kitchen sink at it. Machine-gun fire raked the hull and AT4 rockets flashed as they struck. But, unless they managed to destroy a track, there was nothing the Confederates could do to stop the behemoth.

Rank hath privilege. And even though Provo might not appreciate Mac’s presence, she went forward to peer over the truck commander’s shoulder. From that vantage point, Mac could see the back end of the tank as well as the looming wall beyond. The rebs were starting to panic by that time, and most of the M1 was obscured by smoke as the incoming fire enveloped it. “We’re close,” Provo said. “So far so good.”

Mac turned and went back to sit next to Lang. An unlit pipe jutted from his mouth as he made a small correction to the M1’s course. By looking at his screen, Mac could see every scratch and ding in the steel doors that protected the rebel base. The tank stopped. “I have contact,” Lang announced.

“Blow it,” Mac ordered, and he did. Even though Mac was inside a Stryker, the explosion was still extremely loud. The STEEL BITCHrocked as the pressure wave hit her, shrapnel clanged against the hull, and Provo produced a whoop of joy.

Perez blew on her nails. “There goes seven million dollars,” she observed coolly. “I hope it was worth it.”

Mac stepped up onto the seat, opened the hatch, and stuck her head through the hole. It had been worth it. To her, anyway. The twin explosions had reduced the once-powerful M1 tank to a burning hulk. “Hey, Kolo,” Mac said. “Fire through the smoke… Keep them back.”

The fifty started to chug as troops surged past both sides of the Stryker. Then Kolo had to let up as the soldiers poured through the shattered gate and into the compound beyond.

Most of the Confederate heavy weapons were pointing out . And there was very little time in which to turn them around as Union troops began to shoot the gunners from behind. The rebs fought bravely, but the effort came too late. The Confederates had no choice but to surrender. Mac felt a sense of relief.

She entered the compound on foot. There wasn’t much to look at other than some damaged storage tanks, a shattered shed, and a lot of mangled pipes. Bodies lay where they had fallen. As for the oil that so many people had died for, that was somewhere under her feet. Was it worth the suffering on both sides? Mac hoped so.

An hour later, Mac was seated in her tent, finalizing a letter to a dead soldier’s parents, when Colonel Walters arrived. Mac began to rise. Walters said, “As you were,” and lowered herself into a rickety lawn chair. Mac’s miniscule staff withdrew. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Walters said. “But no good deed goes unpunished. And you’ve been good lately.”