Saber Company

The downpour outside didn’t bother us. The cold gales cutting through the thickest of clothes like a scythe through wheat didn’t bother us.

The rain simply rolled off the chassis of the M1A3 Abrams, and the wind broke against the foliage we had placed upon it earlier to conceal ourselves from observation as we sat adjacent to a large termite hill and a thicket of brush adjacent. From the front, our profile was obscured, and the chassis was protected by the draw in the hill. The sunset behind us only made the grey sky above us disappear into a mix of black and storm cloud clay pastels as the rain began to harden up; nodules of frost began bouncing off the tank.

Within our compartment, half of us slept, while the other two kept watch. Loader Sanders and I were somewhere between sleep and consciousness, while Gunner Martinez and Commander Whitman were scoping the sector. I could hear the wind cutting above the hatch above me as the brush and small trees around us danced in tandem with the wind. We had been sitting in position all day, waiting for negotiations to end on the main communications line. Two things were going to happen at its conclusion: we were going to be given the green-light to attack a small group of outliers hellbent on establishing their own republic, or we were going back to base without pay, and somehow, despite my aversion to getting involved in fights, the pay seemed to be worth all the trouble at this moment.

A voice cut through the silence of the tank’s communications, stirring me awake.

	“Saber 2-1, Saber actual, we just got the greenlight to go into Samsonian territory. Negotiations have failed, The Samsmonians wanted to haggle prices- CEO Barstow wasn’t having any of it. He’s gonna double the pay if we wipe ‘em all out.”

Whitman gave a few shouts in the tank, stirring us fully awake, before giving the order to turn the engine over. I buttoned up my coverall and turned up my radio, before adjusting myself in the driver’s seat, listening to the conversation as Whitman responded.

	“What’d the Mannequin say,” He asked. He was referring to our PMC’s boss, The Mannequin. For some reason, nobody really knew what she looked like. She always wore a ceramic facemask and we never met her in person, always through some sort of interface command.
I spoke of the devil, and she appeared in our headsets as she answered Whitman’s question for him.
	-“I said Saber company would gladly kill all of them for double the payment, and we’d do it immediately after sundown,” Her voice soft and nearly spiritless as she spoke. “You’re all getting paid tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Now advance through the field and get your payday.”

Then the line went dead. She left us to our own devices in the cold autumn. Fresh snowfall melted as it hit the ground, still too warm to freeze and set. Good weather for hunting. Whitman seemed to agree as I could hear the smile on his face as he relayed orders.
	“Load, sabot,” Whitman ordered. I could hear Sanders work the breach lock as he did his job, the shell loaded and locked into position.
	“UP!”
	“Driver, Move out!”
Good spirits abound as I put my foot down on the accelerator. The jet engine veered to life as the rumbling of the treads shuddered as it pressed above the small hill we were positioned behind, but as we reached the apex of the hill, the engine made short work of the distance between the top and the ground below it. As we came out of the clearing, I could see through my periscope the rest of the platoon appearing from their hiding spots. We were all painted shades of greens, greys, the emblem of Saber Company emblazoned on our vehicles, the mottled orange of a skull with crossed sabers. For a moment, I wondered if this what my grandfather had felt pushing into the middle east in 2003.

80 years is a hell of a change. Governments were nearly non-existent now. There were the corporations who took control with their finance, their stocks, their products. They protected the people now. To protect them and their interests, they hired PMCs like Saber Company to get the job done. After this job, we’d go on to the next corporation that needed extra muscle.
I left that thought behind as we closed in on Samsonia, the small fringe group that split from DynaCo. I wasn’t sure what their issue was- didn’t really care. I was more concerned about the notion they weren’t shooting at us, and I restated my concern to Whitman.

	“Commander, we’re less than 2 klicks from their territory and we’re not getting shot at,” I reasoned. Whitman stayed silent for a moment, most likely scanning the terrain with thermals. I could only imagine that the snowfall was fucking with his vision, but after a tense period of silence he got back on the radio and relayed his suspicions.

	“All Saber, this is 2-1, Be advised, we are not taking contact. Slow down.” Saber Actual agreed.
	-“All Saber elements, reduce speed to 15 percent, start scanning your –”
I could hear the first impact. RPG; deflected off the front armor. The vapor trail wilted and twisted in the wind as the projectile found itself spiraling upwards unguided, before detonating above our armor.
	“DRIVER, STOP!”
 I could see where it came from, as an arm reached just above the vegetation to retrieve another rocket. I called out my target like clockwork.
	“Identify Infantry RPG! 400 meters, 75 Degrees!”
“I got the co-ax,” Whitman said as he adjusted his viewfinder, before allowing a burst of 7.62 chatter its way towards the origin of the rocket, a well-camouflaged draw in the field, covered by thatch and reeds from the bog that lay beyond the split in the road another 800 meters to our front.
Each impact of the machinegun kicked up a bit of dirt as clumps of earth were torn away from its mother, until the sudden flash of red sprayed into the air.
	-“Got it on thermal,” The gunner shouted. “Confirmed kill!”
A few bodies sprung up and attempted to displace from their previous position, but Whitman was on them already.”
	-“Two more!”
He acknowledged, sending out another burst of fire, as their bodies fell over attempting to move from one plot of thatch to another. The other elements were not so kind, sounding their displeasure with their main cannons, the resulting explosions drawing out a few more fighters dressed in ghillie, brandishing weapons, RPG packs, and machineguns.
As they attempted to fall back across the road to the bog, the stragglers that were caught out in the open were cut down by a mix between canister, 7.62 and .50 caliber fire, a dazzling array of sparks, dirt, blood, and shit appeared in my periscope.
After this display of force, our enemy somehow wasn’t ready to give up. They returned fire. More RPGs from the bog, along with tracer fire, as the sunlight disappeared, we were at an advantage, seeing as we had thermal imaging, and they were still up shit creek without a paddle or a float vest. That is, until we saw the enemy’s tanks crawling through the bog and field adjacent, kicking up dust that slowly turned to mud as the moisture spackled against it like insulation.
	“Identify Tanks!” I shouted. Through Vox, I could hear the same message repeated.
	-“Identify, Hostile Tank”
	-“Hostile Tank Identified!”
	-“Crazy Horse Tanks! VT4-A2s and King Black Panthers!”
Sure enough, the digi-splash camouflaged tanks with tree branches hanging off their turrets were in fact, Crazy Horse Company. The toughest group of mercs on the market. How did a bunch of yokels get that much coin to afford a world-class entity like Crazy Horse?
Didn’t matter. We were in the shit now. A few guys whooped and hollered through Vox, before they were told to shut up by actual:
“All Saber, FORWARD! We can’t let this armor get in position behind the road! Push! PUUUUUSH!”
“You heard the man,” Whitman screamed, “Forward! Gunner, Target that King Black Panther closest to the edge of the road, 50 Degrees!”
The turret rotated, I could hear it amongst the small arms fire and the RPG shells impacting around us, as Whitman shouted his next orders.
	“Confirm target, King Black Panther! 670 Meters! Fire!”
The shockwave of the main gun powered its way through my chest, as residual dust kicked up from nooks and crannies of the tank, as I tried to distract myself by scanning my view through the periscope.

I saw the shell hit its target, the sabot piercing the Crazy Horse Company’s tank- Just above the left headlight as it was moving, and it suddenly stopped attacking, but continued to move forward and lurch to the right as it flipped itself over as it rode up the embankment to the road and its weight forced it over, the treads continuing to spin until the engine choked itself out.
	“Confirmed Kill!” Whitman shouted as Sanders loaded another sabot into the breach.
	“LOAD, UP!”
Whitman quickly scanned his left, then his right.
	“Identify Target! Tank, AV4, 45 Degrees, Cresting over the road!”

Martinez quickly traversed the barrel. In my periscope, I kept an eye on the turret’s flank as Martinez quickly found his target and fired, just as the front end of the tank bucked upward, exposing its belly. The barrel shook the tank once again, as Whitman opened up with 7.62, as he mowed down a squad of soldiers as they attempted to displace from their foxholes to the draw behind the road to get a shot at the other Saber Company tanks taking position behind the brambles and brush next to the road, exposing most of Crazy Horse Company’s tanks in the open and out of position, as Martinez’s target suddenly burst into flames and lurched back down the hill.
	“We got ‘em by the balls!” One tanker screamed on Vox. Saber actual thought differently.
	-“Negative, Negative, Keep your eyes open! Identify Tank-”
We heard more shots whistle just above our heads as the hostile tanks started to fire in sequence. A handful of rounds hit the ground right in front of some friendly tanks, while others sailed above the turrets, both salvos created plumes of dirt and mud, obscuring some of our tanks with the showering of earth.
	“Aw shit,” Martinez scoffed.
	-“UP!”
	“These motherfuckers are getting their range,” Martinez Concluded, as Whitman shouted into my earpiece.
	-“Actual! This is 2-1! We need to displace! Driver! Orientation, 340; displace to the end of the line, Left flank!”
A shell hit the tank to our left, and almost immediately, smoke began to billow out of the gunner’s hatch; some of the men were attempting to dismount and get away from their tank. For a moment, I wondered why as we drove past them.

	“Whitman, did 5-1 get hit?” I asked as we pulled past them, starting to turn as Whitman quickly took a look back behind He didn’t say anything for a good moment while I traversed through small arms and errant RPGs.
	-“They’re fucked. Continue on mission.” He said it in such a cold, detached manner, I didn’t feel comfortable with that answer.
	“Are they dead-”
	-“CONTINUE ON MISSION.”
I felt a cool shudder as my stomach began to tighten in knots. More incoming sabots whistled past us and in front of us. Every time, I was afraid we were going to buy the farm with each impact, but then my mind whispered to me that if they had hit me, I wouldn’t have had time to fear the possibility of dying; we’d have been cottage cheese before long.
Reaching the end of the echelon, we took position and oriented ourselves on the firing line, as Whitman quickly scoped another Crazy Horse tank. Through my periscope, I anticipated the tank to our front was the next target, as his muzzle suddenly became enveloped in smoke, as the white-hot sabot danced towards us.
“Fuck- DRIVER! REVERSE! REVERSE!” Someone shouted.
I slammed the throttle back as hard as possible, hoping to pull the tank’s front back far enough to protect the armor from getting hit. The sabot pounded the ground just below my compartment, and I swore I felt the ground shift below me, my body shook violently forward as the tank lurched, absorbing the hit.
	“Damage report,” Whitman called out. It was the only thing I heard amongst the droning engine of the tank, the small arms hitting our tank’s armor, and the sound of the main gun firing. I could hear the muted voices beyond the echoing throbbing in my ears, telling me to push forward. My eyes blurred as I could feel the spit welling in my mouth as we continued on
	“Stop.”
	-“Up.”
	-“Fire.”
	-“Up.”
	-“Forward.”
	-“Fire.”
I could hear Whitman's screams as he tried to snap me out of my daze, before I got kicked in the back of the head by Sanders reaching down and slapping the back of my head.
	“GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND INTO THE FIGHT!”
I refocused my attention away from the blood pooling in my mouth from the knocks I got earlier and swallowed the copper in my mouth.

	"I'm good! What's next?!"

	-"Standby," Whitman shouted, as the cannon fire stopped, leaving us with only small arms. Through my periscope, I could see burning husks of tanks, some ours, some theirs. Bodies scattered on top or about the tank- the unfortunate ones who weren't fast enough to get clear. Countless jars of paste of what were once capable tankers, added to the collection to cremate. DynaCo was going to get a pretty big bill after this.

In the distance, I could see wings of mud being kicked up by the treads of the assemblage of King Black Panthers and VT4-A2s kicking rocks out of the A.O. Looked like they weren't paid THAT well...

	-"All Saber be advised, Crazy Horse Company is running! Do not pursue, do not engage, They're not the threat anymore. The way to Samsonia is clear! Push!

	-"Fuck that, Sir! They killed our men! They violated the NAP!"

	-"PMCs are exempt from that agreement, trooper...Didn't you learn anything in civics? Now let’s go! All Saber, Forward!"

"Driver! Forward!" Whitman shouted. I obliged merrily, charging forward with the remainder of Saber Company. In the periscope, we could see the top of the Samsonia firebase just past the next hill, a few flags adorned atop the highest tower. In the dim light, we could see the flag suddenly pulled down by a soldier, replaced with a white bedsheet.

	"Looks like they're giving up," Martinez commented on VOX.

	-"Looks like it. Still. The Contract won't be valid unless we wipe them all out. Load Incendiary."

	"You heard the boss, load matchsticks."

	"Yeah!" Sanders cheered. "Gonna have a fuckin' barbeque tonight...UP!"

The fort's walls were hastily constructed using the timber around the local area. This time of year, the brush was especially dry, even with the fresh snowfall. The night was about to get brighter.

	-"Fire when ready."
	"Identify Target! Building in the center of the compound. Martinez?"

	-"Got it on scope. Range 600."

I watched through the periscope. Something felt wrong about this. They stopped fighting. Shouldn't we have done the same? No. They didn't deserve that. They started this. They're the ones responsible for the deaths of 5-1 and the others in the platoon.

They earned this punishment.

	"FIRE!"

The tank's cannon recoiled, the chassis shook, almost more pronounced than before, as the tip of the shell coasted through the cold darkness like a candle in the night. Then it hit the target.

And then the whole place lit up like a disco. Screams of those inside were muffled by the roar of the fire eating every dry twig and shrub inside the compound with its red-hot glow of comfort, every crackle of tinder that erupted and echoed into the sky was a reminder to anyone who wanted to stand toe-to-toe with us.

Do.Not.Fuck.With.Us.

We stood vigil all night, gunning down any survivors that attempted to escape.

Just another day in Ancapistan.

The world changed after 2045. I can’t remember too much from homeschool, but we were the first to separate from the statist world. But...my memory escapes me.
I took a second to look up from my hash dinner, to glance over to Martinez, who was imbibing himself with a beer, reclining against a wooden crate with tools we stowed away inside our tank. The food, the booze, and the tool chest were marked with DYNACO logos.
The boots? DYNACO.
The Uniforms and rucksacks? DYNACO.
Spare parts for the tank? DYNACO.
Computers and thermal imaging tech? DYNACO.
The shells we fire? DYNACO. DYNACO provided us with all the resources we needed to prosecute the will of the corporation--Our homes and our families depended on our success, as did the corporation itself.
Whitman popped his head out from his tent, a cigarette resting between his lips as he took a short drag, emerging from the small half-shell, his boots pressed firmly into the frozen ground underfoot. Frost flowers dotted the ground in front of our tents, the tank providing a windbreak from the pressure system that was building off to our west.
I could see a break in the grey sky above, the sun sinking under the distant horizon, immolating the sole patch of blue with stripes of yellow, blue, red, even green, if you looked closely enough, the chill of darkness ready to veil the air in a blanket of frost for the 2nd night. But we weren’t sleeping another night here.
	“Okay, guys,” Whitman announced, like he did every time he got big news from up top, like a coach, or a production supervisor. “CEO Barstow and The Mannequin got another job for us.”

Slowly, the members of our tank roused out of our tents and huddled around the fire we had prepared a day earlier and kept alight with loose timber from whatever we could find from the small forest fire we started the night previous.
The Samsonians were no more--Their bodies left as kindling or feed for the wolves that roamed this part of the Northern Hemisphere, so we were left with silence at night. Our company of tanks resting amidst the gentle prodding of winter’s approach.

	“We’re looking at another two-day travel to the Eastern coast of this region, where we’re going to get a quick resupply and rearm before heading back north to have a friendly talk with Crazy Horse Company about their indiscretion the other day. We’re in DYNACO territory, so that means that we have a responsibility to Barstow to keep the frontiers here clear for further development; including chasing off squatters or encroaching corporations. Engines turn in 6 hours--get some sleep.”
The next morning was uneventful. Whitman, Martinez, Sanders and I packed up and fell into formation with the rest of Saber. We sat there for a moment, until Saber Actual came over the Net.

	“All Saber, We’ll be stepping off here...we’ll have to leave 5-1’s crew behind...I’ve been reassured DYNACO will collect the bodies today, and their families have been notified...If we could take a minute to just reflect on our loss...”
The silence was astounding. The engines turned off, the hatches opened, and everyone looked out to the field to the right of the road we had fought over the day before, where the mangled skeletons of tanks still smoldering lay. Beside a destroyed M1A3, the emblem of Saber Company remained untouched by the fires that had consumed the tank. Its crew collected and lay side by side, black wool blankets covering them, their helmets seated atop their chests, their names stenciled on with the white paint we used to mark our vehicles.

I did not know them. Despite our good harmony in combat, we didn’t know each other well enough to feel sorry--At least I didn’t. I was more disappointed they did not get to enjoy the wanton silence of nature. But, I suppose they were enjoying a different type of silence.
The wind cut across our faces as we silently stood vigil over their bodies for a few moments, each blast bringing with it the faint stench of death.
	“Okay,” Saber Actual said quietly over the net. “All Saber- Forward.”
The engines turned on and we rolled out, leaving behind the somber memory of the dead. We had a mission to prosecute. The drive to our next point was long, quiet for a few moments, until Martinez plugged his mp3 player into the AUX port. The sounds of Megadeth blared through the internal headsets of everyone, the volume quiet enough to hear incoming transmissions--mostly banter, discussions about the financial strength of DYNACO compared to the other corporations.

DYNACO came into existence after a 30-year span of proxy wars led by rogue PMCs. The corporations involved in the arming and deployment of those mercenaries. Most corporations found that creating armed wings of their company to intervene in international politics appealed to their financial benefit, from what I remembered.
Eventually, every corporation found themselves fighting each other in various roles, as well as engaging in financial jockeying for position. Those corporations that were destroyed were assimilated and became part of the conglomerate. DYNACO was the largest conglomerate before the establishment of the new order that we were living through--overthrowing the government by electing a leader sympathetic to their ultimate goal--the establishment of an Anarcho-Capitalist government. Canada, U.S.A., Mexico and everything south of it--ceased to be nation-states.
In its place, Corporations like DYNACO took up the responsibility to protect, care for, educate, and support the citizens where their jurisdictions resided, all the while, fending off the last remaining nation-states, as well as enterprising corporations, or even splinter groups that were bought out by other companies, which is what happened the day before.
The small town living by the port where we were looking to resupply was walled off--accessible through a toll gate. This far out on the frontier, the residents were wary to accept anyone without some sort of identification--and financial insurance, just in case. We promptly gave them our vouchers from DYNACO; they’d have to just wirelessly transmit the information when we were done there.

The citizens were warm, caring folks who treated us with respect, as we did to them. It was an idyllic town, modestly built, a standing militia on guard at the walls and within the town, working alongside one of the thousands private police forces--Masterson Enforcement. Their reputation was good; a majority of third-party watchdogs agreed on that based on their own independent research.
DYNACO’s ships were in the harbor, paying by the hour, so our job was to assist the crew in off-loading our supplies, then getting them ready to sail in as short a time-span as possible. Barstow gave us the financial incentive to do some manual labor, but most of us felt compelled to do it anyway-- it was, as some say, “the least we could do”.
It took us 4 hours, but our cargo was offloaded, and the DYNACO freighter was aweigh, which left us the small issue of distributing the cargo and refueling. Saber Actual went to the help center in the middle of town, and payed a good amount of AmCreds (Amorphous Credits) asking for volunteers. Needless to say, the town had to convert the credits to their currency to get the approximate value, but within a few moments, the blockchain updated and the jobs were posted.
About a dozen volunteers appeared, standing at the docks waiting for Saber Actual to distribute wallet vouchers and get them to start working. Didn’t take long once they got the vouchers, and they helped immensely, cutting the workload down to 3 hours. By this point, the Sun had started to set, and the volunteers had left already. Sanders was too busy trying to flirt with one of the local girls who had taken a fancy to his uniform, however plain it was. Perhaps she liked the cut of it, but when time came to roll out after supper, Sanders gave her a voucher for DYNACO products, with his email on it. She then went on her way.
The mountain range to our north became illuminated in the sunset, as another torrent of clouds poured down the side of the low hills ahead of us. The drive would be a long endeavor, another 2 days to link up with Crazy Horse company if we drove through the mountains, but we were planning on taking the coast to the East, bypassing the mountains. They were no place for a tank company. Saber Company would link up with our partners, Gauntlet and Shield at the old town of Montpelier, where Crazy Horse was waiting for us. That’d make 43 tanks against...We weren’t sure. We were going to wait on The Mannequin to give us exact estimates, as she was closer to the intelligence company she had hired for us.

[Montpelier]
[2 Days Later]

DYNACO had made a good established beachhead in this old continent, and we were the spearhead for them. It had been a very slow process taking territory for the company, as it had been a game of trade contracts and mutual agreements to come under control, with the occasional armed response to our approach.
Crazy Horse had to fuck it up, however. The Mannequin relayed the information to us that she found out that the Samsonians had a grand total of--Nothing--In their crypto wallets and couldn’t afford to pay Crazy Horse.
Someone else gave them the finances to do so.

We had left the road sometime before and were now in a long-abandoned grain field, where the wheat flourished freely from the black soil, leaving the crops unattended. We lined up and sat just a mile outside the city gates of Montpelier, all the while John Denver plucked his strings for us, singing Rocky Mountain High, feeding the audio into the company’s radios. We were holding quietly, anxiously. Would we get attacked before we had a chance to react? Always a possibility.
	“Cut the music,” Saber Actual said. Whitman complied. Saber Actual seemed pretty upset about something. “We’re expecting Crazy Horse in 15 mikes. Load Sabot and get your engines on, weapons ready. Standby for a transmission from The Mannequin”.
There was a period of silence, followed by the motherly-like voice of The Mannequin.
	-“Saber Company...I congratulate you on your rapid response to the Samsonian incident 3 days prior. Rest assured, Your client appreciates your professionalism--He has said it firsthand. Unfortunately, our work is not done; despite DYNACO’s success here, we are at the flashpoint of a potential war between DYNACO and the Slav-owned KWP. They financially intervened in the Samsonian Incident by paying off The Crazy Horse PMC. We are planning on meeting the PMC here to reiterate the wishes of our client--Not to Fuck with him. For the duration, you, Gauntlet, and Shield PMCs will be on DYNACO Payroll until this incident is settled, no matter how long it takes.”

	-“Holy shit,” Sanders said quietly. “Another big war.”

Martinez gave an audible “Hmm”, alluding to his agreement as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We’re looking at a long fight ahead of us, right boss?” He was asking Whitman. Whitman waited a moment before responding.
	“Ask Driver.”
	-“Me?” I asked. “I don’t know the first thing about the situation...I just drive the tank. That’s my name, boss.” Whitman shook his head and responded.
	“KWP has been establishing territory here in the Contested zone for years...Since we arrived from the Atlantic, We’ve been gaining territory much faster than we had estimated--Faster than the KWP had anticipated. We’re two thousand miles away from each other...The Contested Zone is more like a corridor, or a Demilitarized zone, so to speak...”
	-“So we’re looking at war, A long war.” I concluded.
	“Looks like it,” Whitman said. “I suggest mailing home most of your personal effects from Seville...We’re not going home anytime soon.”

Saber Actual's voice came through the net just then, his voice tense with a mixture of fear, determination, and grit.

	"All Saber, Intel has indicated a large force pushing through the city ruins. Orders are to advance and investigate. You are weapons free. Roll out!"

Just like that, we were going into battle again. Tanks in the city, most likely Crazy Horse, backed by KWP. That was apparent now--It wasn't just a war for territory. This was a fight between PMCs representing corporations--An action that was illegal; it went against the PMC-Corp treaty signed decades ago. We weren't supposed to represent corporate fights. This was supposed to be a lawyer's' job.

Alas, the pay was good, and 43 tanks rolled into the city, unsure of what we were going to find.

We pushed through the highway, some weird name, La Langue-dough-Sin, or something, and found ourselves amidst the ruins of what was once a modern city. Carcasses of buildings hollowed out and stripped of anything of value or flattened into mounds of rubble and dust. Mangled steel and ashen wood littered the street, but it did not hinder our movement, clocking in somewhere between twenty to forty kilometers to navigate the rubble.

Our tank was on point, Whitman barking directions while pulling double duty--scanning the GPS and looking for targets, while Martinez kept his eyes on the sights. Sanders relayed radio traffic to our sister companies while I kept our tank column moving--Slowly, but steadily. We had just crossed into a heavily urbanized area and drove past a supermarket when Whitman suddenly barked in surprise.

	“Identify Tank! 500 Meters! All Saber break off and establish a firing line, due Northwest!”

I rotated the tank and adjusted its position behind the abandoned supermarket, driving into it. The treads flattened the rusted shelves and the muzzle pierced through the back wall, backing up to allow the cinderblock to fall freely, allowing the gun and sights to peer out of the open wall. The other tanks arranged themselves as best as they could, given the terrain. Our real-time satellite displayed tanks still covering the road from both flanks while several tanks engaged the King Black Panther in the distance.

	“Martinez! Do you have a shot?” Whitman shouted.
	- “Got his turret, nothing else. Sabot Away.”

The fire kicked more cinder dust out of the hole in the wall, clouding our color monitors. I quickly switched to thermal as I double checked our GPS. We were just 2 miles outside of the city center.
	“Load Sabot!”
	-“UP!”
	“Fire!”

Another thunderous shockwave. Cinder blocks begin to knock against the chassis of the tank, followed in part by the other tanks, engaging the tank as well, until a plume of smoke bled into the grey sky above the horizon.

	“Killed. Scanning!” Whitman kept his eyes on periscope, rotating as best as he could. He assumed all was calm, until someone shouted on Vox.

	“Crazy Horse position West! Looks like a Golf Course! Gauntlet, break off and engage West! We’ll take the flank and secure the advance!”

The Leopard X tanks that comprised Gauntlet Company danced away from our positions, leaving plumes of cinder smoke and dust, their dapple camouflage working very well in the foliage as they disappeared from our flank. We backed the tank out to maximize our maneuverability and to keep our flank protected as Saber Actual gave commands over the net.

	“All Saber, Press into the city. Shield Company, Take the right flank and cover our advance into the city.
	-“Roger.”

Whitman checked his GPS one more time.

	“Driver, get back on the road and push into the city, Lead Saber in.”

This was it. I felt knots in my stomach as I throttled forward into the city proper. The engine masked my anxious sigh as we pressed forward, the smell of cinder block filled my nostrils as the winds kicked up from the sea to our East, fluffing up the billowing gray clouds and coaxing moisture from them. It would rain soon, and hopefully, would give us some concealment from the enemy.

As we pushed through the ruins of the city perimeter, the rain began to fall. Whitman uttered a curse through our local radio, before ordering me to stop at the edge of a corner, as Martinez rotated the turret left to look down the road.
	“Can’t see shit,” Martinez quipped, as Sanders adjusted the seat below his ass.
	-“Have you tried thermal yet?” A moment of silence passed by before Martinez stopped checking the viewport to glance over at Sanders, trying to hide a smirk as he realized that there was indeed, thermal imaging on the tank.
	“Fuck you, maricon.”
	-“Stow it, keep an eye out.

The rain picked up in intensity as the clouds began to mask the blue sky above, turning the bright colors still evident in the town into dulled gray hues. Sheets of rainwater poured across the long stretch of road in the direction of the wind, while Martinez and Whitman scanned fervently for another target.

Nothing came.

	“Saber Actual, this is 2-1, We see nothing on scope, permission to advance?” Whitman waited patiently as Saber Actual was most likely double-checking tank positions.

	-“Negative, 2-1, That intersection is a likely flanking route. Hold fast. Shield and Gauntlet are trying to push the rest of Crazy Horse towards you and the rest of Saber."

Whitman cursed. Actual was right. He sighed and slouched a bit in his chair.

	“Roger that, Actual. Saber 2 standing fast.”

When two PMCs met on the field, they fought like professionals. They killed each other in honor of their profession, in honor of their decision to chase glory.
During the Corporate wars, a few rules were established following the establishment of the major corporations that were agreed upon in Chicago.

“The first rule is to never interfere in the business of another Corporation’s PMC operation unless you intend to take ground.”
This applied mostly to the corporations surrounding a battlespace, but it could easily apply to other PMCs trying to affect the outcome between corporations. There were a dozen other ones, but the ones PMCs follow were a lot simpler to comprehend- y’know, for the sake of simplicity:

	“Money steels the conviction. The one paid more will always win.”

	“Treat rivals with respect for their prowess and presence. It takes a god among men-- or a fool-- to choose this profession.”

   “Murder is committed in cold-blood, without a reason.  A warrior should only kill in battle, when it is unavoidable.”

	“Keep your word, even if you die for it.”

	“Death is:
	Your mistress-- You shall take no other.
	Your guide-- You shall not betray it.
	Your teacher-- Every instance of death should be treated as a lesson for yourself--or for others.”

	“The Word Mercenary holds negative connotations even to this day. Always remember you must earn trust and respect by committing yourself to success-- Train hard, Fight harder. The more you bleed, cry, cuss, and doubt in training, the less you shall do in battle. That is how you prove your worth.”

	“Never betray the company you are with to seek fortune elsewhere. The completion of your contract with brothers is better than seeking fortune alone.”

I remember days when we would run into PMCs armed to the nines with tanks, RPGs, TOW missiles and they’d let us pass by into territory a Corporation wanted--They just let us through. They had no stake in the affair, they’d keep out of it. That was how we did business...But now? I don’t know.

We sat there quietly for what felt like an eternity, listening to our radio traffic. The storm increased in its strength, the wind turning the rain into millions of little knives striking the chassis of our tank. The Radio came to life then amidst the colossal roar of thunderheads striking each other above our heads.

	“All Saber, Saber Actual, Mannequin advises that we hold position until the storm passes--WeatherNet, Meteo1, and several other weather observation companies are reading a massive thunderstorm pushing through the region powered by a massive High-pressure system from Africa. Winds in excess of 65 Miles per hour, rainfall averaging-“

A strike of lightning hit the ground in front of us, killing our electronics for a moment, before everything flickered back on. The thunder following the strike of the lighting obscured the radio transmission as the IR scopes flickered from the strike.
It was safe to say we were a little spooked by the sudden change of weather, but it was common, especially near the dead zones in Africa. Nuclear fire purged that place years ago, and the environment had become unstable as a result. Somewhere between Nuclear Winter and Global Warming. Always a storm of snow, ice, dust, or rain. The domes back home helped with the planting and growing...Made me wish I was there now--just for a moment.

Saber Actual’s voice came back on the radio, his concern apparent.

	“Saber 2, Did you copy my last, over?”
-“Saber Actual, this is Saber 2, be advised, we just got hit with lightning. Electronics ok, we’re good. Still scanning our sectors."

	A few moments passed before someone from Gauntlet Company came on Vox.

	“All Companies, this is Gauntlet 2! We have uh-ah...Fucking-big-fucking piece of shit rolling towards us! I have no idea what it is.”
	-“Calm down, Gauntlet Actual-“
	“Fuck that! This thing killed Gauntlet 4, 6, 9, and Actual! Sabot ineffective! Squash Ineffective! Oh Fuuu-“

The line went dead. Whitman looked down the hatch at me.

	“Fuck...Actual, this is 2, Do you have eyes on?”
	-“Standby...That’s a Maus.”
	“What?! Like, That German Prototype?”
	-“Yeah, but...This is different. Two main cannons, sloped armor, ERA...I saw Gauntlet get taken out. They were throwing sabot right at its front, it just rolled out from behind that big hill from the northeast...The colors aren’t Crazy Horse Blue. Red Stripes with Black trim. KPW...”
	“Shit”, Whitman took a deep breath. “There’s gotta be a way to beat it.”

	-“Flank it. We have to take its flank, Whitman. I’ll draw its fire, I’m at its 2 O’clock. I’ll try and move its turret away from you. Hit that road as fast as you can and push through the town onto the other side. Don’t stop for anything; Crazy Horse, KPW, God, Allah, Buddah, I don’t fucking care. You push. Roll out!”

	“You heard the man, Driver! PUSH! Load! Sabot!”
	-“Sabot,sabot! Got it! UP!”

I pulled the throttle as far back as it would go, the Tank’s Honeywell engine whirring to life as I fed the girl with speed, her treads pulling the road over her with zealous ambition as the roar of tank cannons could be heard in the distance. Actual had left his radio on Vox by mistake- We could hear the fear, the determination in his voice as he ordered his men.

	“30 Degrees, he’s at 50, Get him to rotate the turret! Come on, Goines! PUSH! Load Sabot!”
	“Up!”
	“FIRING!”
	“Watch the terrain! HILL! FUCK-“

The clattering of steel plate, the shouts of young adventurers like ourselves, not of joy, but of fear. I felt chills through my entire body, radiating up to my ears as we thundered through the most direct route out of the city. Sure enough, we careened past a few Crazy-Horse tanks looking in the opposite direction towards Saber Actual.

The guys in my tank didn’t notice, they were too focused on the Maus. It was moving towards us as the turret traversed right, trying to track Actual’s movements and fire ahead of him. We were less than 500 meters from him, and the size of the tank finally came into perspective. The Maus towered over us, it seemed. The height of Two Abrams tanks, plus half. Heat waves from the compartment caught my attention as I pulled the tank closer.

	“Jesus, Fuck,” Martinez said. “I’m adjusting angle, don’t get too close, I can’t get a shot on it.”
	-“Actual, this is 2, we’re coming up on the Maus now, How you holding up?”

Silence.

	-“Saber Actual, this is 2, copy my last, Over?”

No time to ask again, I adjusted to the right, and Martinez Traversed the gun left as we rolled past its heavy plates on the side and arrived at the soft backside of the Maus. I could see the lettering on the Exhaust panel where the engines were churning as hard as possible:

MAUS 40K. Property of KPW.

I stomped on both brakes, the tank lurching forward and digging its heels into the wet dirt as the rain continued to pour.
	“IN POSITION!” I screamed, the anxiety filled my chest as the reality set in that this was do-or-die. Martinez adjusted the muzzle just above the exhaust plate, aiming at the large cylindrical barrel attached to its backside.

I didn’t hear Whitman give the order to fire, but the cannon kicked us back a bit, and I could see the sabot penetrate the rear armor with a shower of sparks and flame shoot out the back, followed by smoke. The fire was yellow like the sun, illuminating the ground, and soaking the ground in flames before being put out by the rainwater above and below.

	“Load, Squash! C’mon! Fast!”

Sanders’ squat body made quick work of changing shells. The guy was a power-lifter in his off-time when he wasn’t boozing or looking for meat to fill.

	“UP!”

Martinez was sucking on his bottom lip, some blood dribbling from his mouth as he pressed his forehead into the scope, trying to get his angle just right. He pressed the trigger and the round came out, the plastic tip smashing into the steel and turning even more of the thin plate in the rear into a void filled with burning gasoline.
Smoke billowed out from every crevice of the tank now, but something told Whitman and Martinez to continue.

	“Gimme HEAT!”
	“UP!”
	“FIRE! FUCK YOU!”

The smoke was suddenly replaced with flames licking the paint off the tank as the hatches roared open with flames, a few people running out completely engulfed in flames.

Whitman hollered as soon as the bodies piled out of the Maus.

	“FOOT MOBILE! GET HIS ASS!”

The chattering of 7.62 brass falling onto the steel of the tank filled my ears as I watched as those burning bodies fell dead face-first into the puddles.

	“Clear the town. About face and clear it, before the ammo goes up...”

I did as instructed, throwing the throttle to reverse and turn back into the town, where the last two tanks in town were Crazy Horse. They still had not moved from their last position, it seemed. I moved the tank forward far enough away that the shells cooked off into the Maus behind us.

We quickly dispatched the last two Crazy Horse tanks, before sitting idly in the tank for what seemed like an eternity. Whitman rested his head back against nothing, allowing his head to roll back as he took a deep breath, before hitting VOX.
	“All Saber, this is 2. How copy, Over?”

Silence, again. Whitman sounded concerned as he relayed the message again and again. Finally, The Mannequin came on the radio, her voice, different.

	“Whitman.” She said softly. Whitman’s eyes glanced to Sanders, who looked down to me. Something just happened.
Amidst the chaos, the desperation of combat, we did not notice our surroundings.

	-“Yes, M’am.”
	“...Saber is gone. Gauntlet is gone. Shield bugged out when the Maus appeared. You’re all that’s left of Saber.”
	-“Actual’s gone...”
	“You’re the Acting Commander of Saber, Whitman. Come on home. Our job’s done.”

A moment of silence passed through our tank, the rain still stinging our armor as we sat there. Whitman inhaled sharply, the mark of sorrow in his voice as he pulled back phlegm from his throat.
	“Yes, M’am....Driver!” There was a pause. “Roll out.”

The trip back was quiet. No music, no conversation. We drove with the hatches open and the wet air in our face as we stopped at the Port town we were at a few days prior. A few days ago we were on top. Now? Bottom tier. Us and Crazy Horse. Nothing left but broken men and tired souls.

We stayed in port for 3 days, our tank sitting quietly at the harbor, chained. Locked. Put away. Whatever pay we got- a tidy sum due to all of Saber’s unfortunate demise- was spent on room, food, beer. All we wanted. I hated every moment of it...The pain of our loss was only multiplied by our forced exile from the battlefield to return home.

Before that, however...We had to bury our friends. Battlefield recovery had retrieved all the dead from Gauntlet and Saber. We zipped them up in DYNACO corpse bags repainted Sienna and Black--Saber company’s colors for ours, and Blue and Black for Gauntlet. They rested atop the old oak of the shaded dock, as we stood vigil over them, taking the time to contemplate our mistakes, even the snowstorm that seemed to complicate our logistics for the time being.

The tanker that arrived for our tank and the bodies belonged to Saber Company. As we rolled the tank into cargo, and the bodies into the morgue with the help of staffers, we made our way towards the first empty bunks we could find and made our nests.
I found myself a fair distance away from my team, but the isolation was comforting for the moment...
I think it was a few days before the Mannequin called for us to meet her on the bridge. We had cleaned up, gotten ourselves cleaned up and squared away.

As we all walked into her office on the bridge, she had her back turned to us, investigating a map of some sort. She stood dressed in all black, her porcelain mask still attached, but lifted away from her face, as we could see the motif of the mask resting atop her head of red hair. Slowly, she pulled the mask down and adjusted it, before turning to face us.
	“Saber Company. I want to offer you all my most sincere thank you...We have forged a path of glory the likes no others have seen...”
What the hell was this bitch getting at? I felt the need to express my frustration, but she stopped talking.

	“At least, that’s what I would’ve said to everyone...Had we been successful. Whitman, Martinez, Sanders...Driver...I brought you here because I need your skills. DYNACO has ended our contract for now to free up finances for ground forces into KPW territory...but that doesn’t mean we’re done fighting. We’re just in a new business phase. Barstow wants us. And he’s willing to give us more tanks...But he wants you four to find mercs. In Russia. In KPW territory.”

	-“In KPW Territory, m’am? We’ll be dead the minute we hit the beach,” Martinez said, surprised she’d even consider this plan. The Mannequin nodded and gave a reassuring tone as she continued.

	“Much to our benefit, KPW’s control of the region is dictated not by Corporations, but by Mercenary Warlords. Each Warlord has a right to trial by combat. Tank on Tank battle between the Warlord and the offending party...Because they’re decentralized, You could get away with acting as an isolated partisan force.

	-“So let me get this straight...You want us to drop into KPW territory, steal a tank, then fuck up fuel and ammo depots, and stretch the enemy then. Is that it? ” Whitman’s voice seemed slightly chipper at this suggestion. “...Where do I sign up?”

	-“Fuck it, I’ll join,” Martinez said. Sanders nodded with them, before they all looked at me. I looked away, not sure how to feel about this prospect. No money, no real affiliation. We were vagabonds about to invade a Corporation like the Vikings invaded England...Come to think of it, that’s exactly what we were doing...”

And that sounded fucking awesome.

	“I’m in.”