The M5-CD variants swiveled their high-power microwave emitters skyward. There was no visible beam, just drones tumbling from the sky like poisoned birds.
The drone operators or the AI controlling them was reacting to the HPM and scattering, making it harder for the Leonidas system to fry their circuitry.
“We got leakers! They’re getting through!” Munoz’s voice cracked, tangible fear in it now. This might be training, but those drones looked too real as they dove at their position.
The surviving drones evaded erratically, moving with inhuman speed as they bore down on them. In real combat, this was exploding death on a stick flying at a hundred-plus miles per hour. Torres watched in horror as one of the little nightmares zipped around several trees before aiming for a Polish tank to their left. Drones had gotten through. Vehicles were lost.
The Polish K2 to their left popped a red smoke grenade as simulated flames — hit by a drone carrying a training marker. The crew bailed out, playing dead as per the exercise rules as they watched the others continue on.
Torres pushed the loss aside and put his head back in the game as he ordered his tank back on the move. “Assassin Six, Assassin Two-Seven, displacing to next firing position!” Torres radioed.
Seconds later, Novak called. “All Assassin Two elements, retrograde to Phase Line Blue!”
As they backed off the tree line under a hail of simulated fire — explosions, tracers, and smoke — it looked like the combat footage they had trained on from Ukraine. By the time they reached the rally point, half the company of tanks was dead. The M5s were toast.
“ENDEX, ENDEX,” Iron Six’s voice boomed across the net. “Exercise complete. Return to Assembly Area Alpha for debrief.”
The battlefield fell silent except for the whine of the tank’s turbine engines. Torres climbed from his tank, legs shaky from adrenaline. All around him, tank crews emerged looking shell-shocked. The combination of live ammunition, overhead tracers, and constant explosions had achieved its purpose. This felt real; it felt terrifying.
“Wow. Holy crap, that was insane,” Burke muttered, pulling off his CVC helmet. Sweat plastered his hair to his skull.
“That was… educational,” Torres corrected. He watched the Ripsaws return to their staging point, moving in perfect formation despite the chaos. Those machines had performed well, but the drone swarms had still broken through.
It was time to learn from this controlled disaster and figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what they could do better.
The after-action review took place in the same converted hangar, but the atmosphere was different. Crews sat straighter, paying closer attention. There was nothing like live rounds and explosions to focus the mind.
“You are dead,” Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham announced without preamble, addressing the assembled companies. “If this were real combat — we just lost forty percent of the battalion. Why?”
This time, no one rushed to answer. The live-fire exercise had stripped away comfortable assumptions.
“Because you still think this is a game,” Cunningham continued. “When artillery falls, when tracers fly, when drones swarm — you hesitate. You think. You die.”
He clicked through footage from the exercise. Tanks bunched up under fire. Crews slowed to react to the drone threat. Perfect kill zones had been created by predictable movement.
“The Ripsaws performed well,” Major Lathrop added. “They identified threats, engaged targets, maintained precision under fire. But look here—” He highlighted a moment where an M5 sat motionless while its controlling crew dealt with their own crisis. “When humans panic, machines become expensive targets.”
Warrant Officer Marrick stood. “Sir, the data shows the autonomous systems achieved—”
“That’s great. But machines don’t bleed,” Cunningham cut him off. “Your machines killed targets, Chief. But they couldn’t adapt when the enemy changed its tactics. They failed to recognize the trap until too late.”
Torres found himself nodding. The Ripsaws had performed their programmed tasks perfectly. But war wasn’t a program.
“Sergeant Torres,” Cunningham pointed at him. “Your crew. What did you learn?”
Torres stood slowly. “That we need to train harder, sir. The noise, the chaos — it got to us. My loader froze up when things got loud. My driver overcorrected under fire. We survived on instinct, not skill.”
“Honest assessment. Continue.”
“The integration with the Ripsaws is still clunky. When our tank is fighting for survival, we can’t manage the unmanned systems effectively. It’s like trying to play piano while drowning.”
There were a few chuckles from the crowd. Gallows humor ruled among tankers.
“So what do you propose?” asked Lieutenant Colonel Cunningham.
