When Owen saw the disabled tank fall behind alone, his eyes lit up. He waved his hand, and the squad withdrew into the underbrush, huddling together.
"Anyone here know how to fire a tank cannon?"
He glanced around as he asked.
"I do…"
Several hands shot up simultaneously. Even with their faces smeared in camouflage paint, their eager expressions were obvious—they already knew what Owen intended to do.
"Boss, boss, pick me! You have to pick me. I'm a former special forces soldier, trained in armored warfare—I'm good with tank guns!" Fred volunteered shamelessly, practically shoving his hand in Owen's face. Beside him, Ghost looked at him with open disdain—what, like Fred was the only one with special forces experience? He had served in the SAS, which, in his eyes, was way superior to Fred's GROM.
Heartbeat wanted to raise his hand too, but hesitated and ultimately gave up. Damn it, bullying again. What's so great about special forces anyway? But... okay, firing a tank gun wasn't something he actually knew how to do.
Owen smacked Fred's hand away, glanced around, then declared, "We're taking that disabled tank and helping the guerrillas wipe out those bastards. Soothsayer, you've done well today. I'm giving you a shot—fire the cannon. Ghost will load for you. Miss, and you're out."
Fred whispered a triumphant cheer, clearly gloating.
Owen continued, "Night Owl, the machine gun's yours."
"No problem," Bayev responded.
"Bullseye, take care of the other two machine gunners. Heartbeat, you're with me—stay ready to provide support. Herman, get word to your people—tell them not to shoot us by mistake."
Everyone acknowledged their roles and sprang into action. Herman dove into the grass and disappeared in a flash—every second meant more of his comrades were bleeding.
Owen gave the signal. Operation commence.
Pft-pft-pft-pft~
A series of muffled shots rang out. The crew working on the tank had no idea what hit them—bullets pierced their backs from mere meters away. All eyes were on the front, completely oblivious to the silent threat just behind them.
One machine gunner spotted something out of the corner of his eye, but before he could even turn his head, a bullet went through his skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed from one side of his face as his body collapsed onto the turret.
At the same time, Fred, Ghost, and Bayev advanced swiftly. No one had realized what was happening yet.
The three closed in silently. Owen and Heartbeat followed closely, providing cover. As they neared, Owen and Heartbeat slung their rifles and caught the weapons Fred and the others tossed over—nobody could crawl into a tank turret with a long gun on their back.
The track on this side of the tank was broken. Fred, Ghost, and Bayev struggled to climb up. Owen and Heartbeat remained on the ground to finish off the crew members lying nearby.
Bayev grabbed the dead machine gunner's arm and dragged his body out of the hatch. Inside the tank, the loader was puzzled—he felt something dripping onto him. He touched it. Slimy. Brought his hand to his nose. Blood.
"&&%&￥（（*..."
Shouting in panic, the loader pulled out his sidearm. As he looked up, a blinding strobe struck him in the face.
On the hatch, Fred wielded a tactical flashlight in strobe mode, sweeping it erratically into the tank's interior. Ghost and Bayev fired their pistols into the confined space.
The loader, blinded and stunned, was shot repeatedly. The gunner and driver tried to investigate the commotion, only to be hit as well—confused and disoriented, they never had a chance.
Once the trio confirmed everyone inside was dead, Fred crawled into the tank. Hauling corpses inside a confined space is no easy task, but he managed, dragging each out with visible effort.
"Cyka blyat~~" Bayev cursed, tossing the last corpse off the tank before dropping into the hatch himself. He grabbed the dual-barrel 7.62mm machine gun. Feeling the cold metal in his hands, his blood boiled. His chakra surged. He wanted to scream some ridiculous anime line—Amaterasu!—but restrained himself.
Even now, no one had realized the tank had been compromised. The gunfire from earlier was drowned in the chaos and explosions.
Inside the tank, Ghost and Fred got to work. Ghost yanked a shell from the ammo box and loaded it. The turret swiveled. Their coordination actually looked pretty convincing.
Ready. Fire~~
The tank shuddered as the cannon fired. The shell screamed out of the barrel—but missed. It whizzed past the mine-clearing tank, scraping its side.
"What the hell are you doing?" Owen shouted over the comms.
At the same time, Bayev opened fire with the dual machine guns. The cannon may have missed, but the machine gun didn't. A hailstorm of bullets rained down on the infantry behind the two forward tanks—dozens fell in seconds.
At that moment, those soldiers felt what the guerrillas had been enduring. Caught completely off guard, Bayev's attack caused massive casualties.
The sound of bullets punching through flesh was horrifying—yet carried a strange, grim satisfaction.
Inside the tank, Fred didn't dare respond to Owen's rebuke. Ghost, irritated, ejected the spent shell and loaded a new one.
"Miss again and I'm taking over," Ghost muttered, giving Fred a scathing look.
Fred ground his teeth, adjusted the angle, took aim again, and fired.
The cannon boomed once more. The mine-clearing tank had just rotated its turret and its machine gunner was starting to respond—only to get his head blown off by Swagg, who fired from a hidden position, granting him a painless death.
The next second, the shell slammed into the tank.
It pierced the armor, and inside, a flood of molten metal burst forth. The high-temperature jet shredded the interior, killing the crew instantly—whether from heat or shock was anyone's guess. No one made a sound.
Then the jet ignited the ammo rack.
The tank exploded in a brilliant fireball, the turret rocketing into the sky.
"Hahaha~~~"
Fred and Ghost laughed and high-fived inside the turret, watching the inferno outside. Ghost hadn't loaded a standard shell—but a HEAT round, specifically designed to penetrate armor.
The warhead consisted of a shaped charge lined with a conical copper liner. Upon impact, the rear explosive detonated. The resulting shockwave traveled at 8,000 meters per second, compressing the liner inward. The force converged along the cone's axis, forming a high-temperature, high-pressure jet of molten metal.
This metal stream, ejected at speeds of 8,000–9,000 meters per second, punched through the armor and obliterated everything inside—equipment and humans alike.
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