1 Samsonia

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, her honeyed words encouraging us with her answer.

- "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 pay-day."

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 ancestor 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 moment 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 bright flash of red sprayed into the air on thermals.

- "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 small arms 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.

"Shit," Martinez scoffed.

- "UP!"

"These guys 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 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.

You will lose.

We stood vigil all night, gunning down any survivors that

attempted to escape.

Just another day in the Anarcho-Capitalist free lands of Europe.