“Exactly. That’s the spirit.” Mick flicked ash into the harbor. “Tomorrow we run the nightmare scenario. Full invasion fleet, contested electromagnetic environment, degraded communications. Think your people are ready?”
“They’ll have to be.” Tang watched his sailors through the trailer window, bent over their consoles with fierce concentration. “That vote in Beijing last week… it was meant to end us.”
“Then let’s make sure they choke on the attempt.” Mick crushed out his cigarette. “Yoda was wrong about one thing. There is ‘try.’ And trying to invade Taiwan after we’re done here will be the PRC’s last mistake.”
They headed back inside. The next scenario was loading — a hundred PLAN vessels approaching with their barge bridges and civilian vehicle ferries loaded with battalions of armor and infantry fighting vehicles, hundreds of PLA aircraft, communications jammed, satellites offline.
“Assassin Two-Two, this is Assassin Two-Seven. I’ve got eyes on ridge. We’ve got FPV drones above and in the tree line,” Torres’s voice crackled over the internal comms. He’d barely called out his warning when, a second later, the Leonidas-equipped Ripsaw on the flank fired a directed pulse into the sky. Torres watched through his commander’s independent thermal viewer in satisfaction as the pair of commercial-grade quadcopters dropped like flies into the Polish mud. The threat had been eliminated before it could ruin their day.
Unlike conventional weapons, the electromagnetic pulse made no sound when it fired. There was no crack of the sound barrier breaking, no swooshing sound of a rocket motor or missile accelerating — just a faint electrical hum, then silence where rotors had once buzzed.
“Assassin Two-Seven, Romeo One-Alpha, targets eliminated, targets eliminated,” Warrant Officer Marrick announced over the battalion net. “Shifting autonomous patrol route to Grid November-Kilo-Four-Seven.”
A sharp crack split the air. Then another. The M5’s 30mm autocannon tore into a drone-controlled target vehicle disguised as a Russian BMP-3. The unmanned target erupted in a shower of sparks and shredded composite material before igniting, adding to the realism.
“Holy—” Private First Class Munoz jumped in surprise from the sudden eruption of machine-gun fire and cannons going off outside as the exercise got underway. “Whoa! Those are live rounds that Polish watchtower is firing over top of us!”
“Damn right they are,” Torres growled from his commander’s station. “They’re firing well above us to simulate what it will sound like when it’s the real deal, Private. We train as we fight. No do-overs when Ivan comes knocking. Now stay focused. Head in the game, guys.”
Their tank moved with the rest of the platoon as they advanced further into the training range. The whole scene was surreal, far more realistic than the range they’d trained on at Bliss. As they approached a wooded area, the hairs on the back of Torres’s neck tingled. He keyed his mic. “Gunner, traverse right. Watch that wood line.”
“Copy that,” Sergeant Burke replied. The turret whined as their 120mm smoothbore cannon tracked to the right of the scarred training area. More tracers arced overhead — red streams of 7.62mm mixed with the stuttering bark of the louder .50-cal, firing somewhere to their left.
A pyrotechnic artillery simulator exploded nearby, adding yet another layer of realism to their training. Some crazy Polish engineers had rigged canisters filled with loose rocks and dirt to be thrown into the air to rain down on their vehicles as they drove by. It greatly increased the pucker factor of their training.
“Assassin Two-Seven, this is Assassin Two-Six.” Lieutenant Novak’s voice cut through, trying to project calm over the chaos. “Polish element reports movement along grid Papa-Romeo-Two-Eight-Eight-Seven-Six. Probable OPFOR armor.”
Another explosion erupted, closer this time. Smoke canisters popped along the ridgeline, obscuring thermal sights with thick gray clouds.
“Roger, Assassin Two-Six. Assassin Two-Two moving to overwatch.”
“Driver, ford that creek, then find us a berm near the tree line,” Torres commanded. “We need defilade to cover First Platoon’s advance.”
Specialist Boone responded instantly. The seventy-ton M1E3 lurched forward, turbine screaming. They plunged into the shallow creek, water spraying in the air as they did. The tracks churned through the muddy bottom, finding purchase on the rocky streambed without missing a beat.
As they exited the far bank, another salvo of artillery simulators detonated behind them, close enough to pepper the turret with dirt clods. Boone spotted what Torres wanted — a natural earthen berm created by years of erosion, just high enough to hide their hull and drove toward it.
“Perfect, Boone. Ease her in.”
