Three Tankers and a Child

Journal Entry, 2-4-2014.

In the unlikely possibility that in the distant future, this is recovered from the ashes of the present in a better world, I'd like to clarify: I do not know Mari Makinami. And I do not mean that philosophically, I mean it in the most literal sense. She is a complete enigma to me. Arguably, it is not my business to know who she is—there are certain security protocols that are to be obeyed, that the entirety of the Chertovsky Regiment obeys as part of the Group of Union Forces in the United Nations, under the UN Special Agency NERV, and as far as I can tell, all of them ultimately involve the behemoth kept in Cocytus or Pilot Mikinami. Modern humans are compelled to accept some degree of secrecy from the establishment, no matter where they are. As military personnel, we accept a higher degree of secrecy in the name of duty. I actually don't really mind that fact.

That being said, if I had to explain whom she was to another, I'd say this: There was a point where we needed to stop and we've clearly passed it. But let's keep going and see what happens.

9:21 Pm. Aleksandr sat in his room—at Bethany Base he had a private room to himself, practically the lap of luxury that was directly adjacent to those of his fellow crewmembers—staring at the worn, yellowing pages of journal. He eyed the Chinese-made laptop computer sitting unused on his nightstand, and wondered if he'd ever make the practical decision to switch to a digital medium.

Someone knocked at his door. "It's open, Vanya."

It wasn't Vanya, but the person stepped through anyway: another seventeen-year-old in grey military undergarments. "Tovarisch Khanov."

Khanov pushed his eyeglasses up his face and gave a stupid, nerdy grin. The two men were not acquainted beyond the basics—they shared the same profession, Khanov being the gunner for Tank No. 015 in the regiment. "Aleksandr. You saw her?"

"Saw who?"

A large milk chocolate bar in brown wrapping landed on his lap. "Stop stalling."

He examined it the way a thief might examine an ingot. "God willing, we will all live to be old enough to bribe one another with cigarettes one day."

Khanov looked like he was about to bash his head against the doorframe. "You mean Provisional Unit Pilot Makinami?"

"Yes sir, Cadet-Sergeant Orbay," he growled at him through clenched teeth. Aleksandr was already tearing through the wrapper when he looked up again.

"Honestly, Khanov, I really don't know what to tell you. She's a sixteen-year-old girl," he guessed aloud. "Or fifteen, or seventeen. I barely know anything more than you…hey!"

Khanov snatched back the now-open chocolate and gave him a look. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he held his hands up. "I…she's seemed nice! Very friendly."

He stared back at him, raising the bar slightly, imploring him to continue.

"She…wears glasses. All the time," he added quickly.

This wasn't enough. Aleksandr looked away momentarily before leaping at Khanov from the bed, literally snatching the bar out of his hand with his teeth. Khanov gave a yelp, almost falling out into the hallway.

"Bastard. How about this, I'd rather get an evening visit from her than you, chocolate or not," he growled at Khanov, now on the floor.

Khanov rose to his feet. "Hah, fat chance on that," he muttered as Aleksandr hurriedly devoured the rest of the bar in several big bites. "Well?"

He sighed, chocolate smudged around his mouth. "Honestly, it was difficult to get any sort of bearing on her. It didn't occur to me at the time, she seemed so friendly, but I've never met another person our age so guarded as her."

"She would be, wouldn't she?"

"Why do you care?" he asked pointedly.

Khanov groaned. "Ugh, how can you be so stupid? You know the whole reason we came to Bethany with our toy tanks to amuse that child prodigy in the killer robot?"

Aleksandr stared at Khanov, who stared right back, his face almost manic.

"When you put it like that, it's profoundly depressing," he said finally.

"Details, Sasha, details!"

Aleksandr disliked being called 'Sasha', but in truth, that was the least irritating thing about the conversation. He wiped some chocolate from his lips on his arm. "Khanov, what will it take to get you out of my room?"

The other young man cocked his head and shifted his eyebrows repeatedly.

"She's...even prettier than you think. In person, I mean." He scratched the back of his right ear nervously. "And she's very slender."

Khanov said nothing, just staring at him blankly.

"And I think, well, she's very…uh…" After struggling with words for a few seconds, he briefly withdrew both his arms underneath his undershirt, making a pair of fists with his hands over his chest.

Khanov grinned, which only made Aleksandr sigh harder.

"Now get out."

He cocked his head in the other direction. "Did she smell nice?"

"GET OUT!" he screamed, probably loud enough to wake Vanya and Mikhail. Khanov scampered like a frightened cat and he slammed his door shut. The strangest part of that wasn't that Khanov had a crush on the pilot. Of course he did, of the regiment's three tank battalions, theirs consisted of thirty-two tanks and ninety-six former-Suvorovets crewing them, and at least ninety of them had crushes on her, himself probably included.

It was how impersonal and indifferent Khanov was when they were all in uniform. The two really didn't even know each other that well, they were in different tanks after all. He thought Khanov would've rather been punched in the mouth then asked him what he thought of the opposite sex—in fact, he almost certainly did—while he was in uniform.

"You never really know a person." It wasn't how you'd think he'd act. Like a few other tankers, not to mention Major Novikov, Khanov was an ethnic Kazakh. Accordingly the predominant stereotype said he ought to be serious, quiet, thoughtful, polite. Being a creepy girl-obsessed letch, on the other hand, that was something associated with Caucasians like himself, part of that whole "hot-blooded" stereotype that had existed for at least a century, if not longer. I guess that tells you something about the practical application of stereotypes, huh?

Khanov, and the rest of the regiment, put on their "business faces" next morning, the Eurasians euphemistically called it among themselves. It was one of the large library of inside jokes they kept among themselves, mostly in a childish effort to constantly keep their American colleagues, particularly the brass who ran the whole show, guessing what they were thinking. It started out innocently enough—they were all young men, very young men to be sitting in tanks, maybe too young. The Americans had a very specific impression of the Russians and so did they of them, of course. Quickly the whole regiment, their battalion included, got the idea to keep them guessing as much as possible, and they returned the favor. Of course, so long as the Americans were in charge, the onus was on them to stay informed. To the former-Suvorovets, it was a game.

Colonel Evdokimov, a Russian, was the regimental commander, though Novikov handled the day-to-day business. After mustering in the morning, it was Novikov who directed the exercises through the Ninth Circle of Hell, as they'd taken to calling Cocytus' system of cavernous tunnels, wide enough for a dozen tanks to run through in parallel with training.

They did their usual live-ammunition exercise—striking a target painted on the wall while moving at high speed. A strange exercise, but one they were familiar with.

"Forward, forward!"

Aleksandr heard Mikhail shouting across the main gun, at Vanya below. Vanya kept the throttle up and their tank bounced on its suspension along an uneven section of the tunnel floor.

"I wouldn't think too much about it, Khanov's always been weird. Target approaching Aleksandr," Mikhail announced. "Load HEAT."

He turned the switch on the console. "Loading. I see it," he replied, looking through the main periscope. He already had an angle and elevation in mind, he just had to wait for the large red circle to pass into his sight. He heard the tank in front of him fire, a decent hit, at least not a miss. "Slow down a little."

"Vanya!"

"Slowing down 'a little'," Vanya parroted. The three were close enough that such imprecise terms were sufficient, even if they'd never pass in proper military use.

There was no slowing. "Vanya!"

"You know there's another tank behind us, right?"

"VANYA!"

"ALEKSANDR!"

He almost missed the target entirely—instead, he squeezed the firing trigger seven-tenths of a second later than he should've. Another explosion enveloped the target, obscuring it in fire and flames.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, not until an alarm sounded on the headphones built into their leather helmets. Three sharp, annoying chirps in quick succession: emergency termination of the exercise. Unlike an early termination of the exercise, this was an immediate halt of all vehicles where they were. Vanya slammed on the brakes and all three of them jolted to a stop.

Annoying because of what it usually meant: one tank having collided with another, for example. Less commonly, a mechanical breakdown in one tank's one-tonne GTD-1250G gas turbine power plant, which actually meant more trouble than a collision, because someone having failed to maintain the upkeep-intensive engine represented a greater failure a driving error.

What was it? While he and Mikhail disembarked through their hatches, he felt the tank commander pat him on the shoulder and point at their 3 o'clock. Standing on what looked like a reviewing stand halfway through the cavern, surrounded by computers and electric torches, stood Major Novikov, binoculars around his neck and his face lit up by the monitors, and two subordinate commissioned officers with Tank Troops insignia. He was pointing at something, then at the two subordinates, then back at the computers.

"Uh oh," Vanya belatedly announced as Novikov climbed down from the observation stand, past the other line of subordinate tank troops officers, one of whom quickly followed and started shrilling blowing on a whistle as they approached. The while was a sign to leave their tanks in a manner resembling a traffic jam and form a line.

"Uh oh," he repeated when they were standing in a line between two other vehicle crews.

"Goddamn it, Aleksandr," Mikhail hissed.

"Don't give me that," he countered defensively.

"Will the crew of tank zero-one-three stand step forward please." Despite the polite addition, this was clearly not intended as a kindness.

They stepped almost ten meters ahead of the group, staying in their small line. Novikov stepped between them and the old line. "Tak tochno, Tovarisch Kombat!" they shouted in unison, louder than necessary. Though Novikov himself made little distinction between that and his actual rank, many still referred to him by the old fashion abbreviated battalion commander title.

"Tank commander, Mikhail Nikoleyevich Tikhonov!"

"Tank gunner, Aleksandr Stanisla-…"

"Yes, yes, I'm I know your names," Novikov cut them off from the usual loud military routine of needless self-identification. Vanya almost looked betrayed that he hadn't gotten to speak. "What I want to know…is what is this?" he asked, tilting his head towards the swirling, smoking mass that still obscured the training target.

All three of them nervously stared at the smoke, as if hoping it would fade enough to reveal something.

He tapped his foot impatiently. "What do you think this is, Swan Lake?"

"No, sir…tank biathlon!" someone announced

Novikov looked over his shoulder at the very silent row of crewmen, none uttering a single word. He could've demanded someone come forward for the utterance, and when no one broke the united front of children versus adults, he could've collectively punished the lot of them. But that wasn't the battalion commander's style. As he'd say, he hated such nonscientific, imprecise measures.

"Tank biathlon," he repeated, arms behind his back. "I can see how you might be under that impression, though children do not participate in that particular competition, do they?"

"Also, Kombat, that competition involves T-72B3 tanks, sir," the tank troops senior lieutenant pointed out.

Novikov shot the lieutenant a cold look before tossing him his binoculars before he turned back to the three of them. "Follow me."

"Yes sir!"

The four of them cleared through the line of the troops and after several minutes of awkward silence, stopped in front of the target point, the smoke and dust having faded to reveal a single large slab of solid granite six meters tall with some visible painted target stripes still visible on either side of the shell impact grouping, large craters blasted out of the granite.

"Do you see what's wrong here, Suvorovets?" he asked, now sounding like a teacher—not an improvement to Aleksandr. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Mikhail studying the various craters until his eyes abruptly widened, then narrowed. Uh oh.

He traced the path of Mikhail's eyes and then barely held back a sigh. Very uh oh.

Novikov took a few steps closer to the granite and reached towards the center of the grouping, on the edge of a blasted-out crater, and with a gloved hand dug out some chunks of granite until a small, centimeter-sized hole was clearly visible to the naked eye.

"Uh oh," Vanya muttered very softly.

"Cadet-Sergeant Orbay, I would like you to tell me and the rest of your comrades what you've done wrong here."

"Comrade Major, sir, we…I…we apparently loaded the anti-tank penetrator ammunition rather than the anti-tank high explosive, which we then fired."

"And Cadet-Sergeant, can you tell me the difference between the two?"

"The Three-BM-Four-Two-M is the principle anti-armour ammunition to be used in most circumstances, whereas the Three-VBK-Two Seven is the less flexible anti-armour ammunition carried in smaller quantities and only intended for short-range engagements due to its less strict deviation criteria and less flat trajectory and the fact that we carry fewer of them and…."

"Thank you, Orbay. And how would that have happened?"

He blinked and raised the hand he turned the ammunition-selection knob with. And here I thought I just was a bad shot. "I must have…turned it the wrong…way and…I…"

"And if this were live combat, Comrade Orbay, what would that mistake mean?"

While Aleksandr was being grilled for turning a knob the wrong way, the crews failed to notice the trio of newcomers entering the 9th Circle via an access hatch to a maintenance walkway that ran the length of the cavern ceiling. One easily slid through the narrow hatch—the other two only followed under duress.

"High up here. And they're not even shooting anymore," Mari Illustrious Makinami announced before yanking off her ear protection and tossing it at the older man following her, an American in a tan-colored NERV uniform. She took a deep breath. "It smells like…pyroxylin."

"From gunpowder in their propellant charges, ma'am."

Mari gave him a mischievous grin. "Simple, aren't they?"

"I think they'd resent the term." He frowned at her. "Ma'am, don't you have anything better to…"

He stopped when Mari put an exaggerated finger in front of her lips, still grinning, and looked down over the railing.

"No, no, please," Novikov snapped below. "I like this sort of measured debate." To the dismay of those under him, Novikov—as he somewhat tended to—had reverted to a dry tone where it was difficult to tell if he was deliberately sarcastic or merely frustrated.

Khanov took the risk. "Comrade Major, sir, I know for a fact that, as a gunner, I've made the same mistake that Comrade Orbay has made." He paused, eyes darting. "Admittedly, I corrected myself by turning the knob in the opposite direction. But even in our modern tanks, our hands can slip on the second turn, what with the shot window being so narrow."

"So a mistake?" Novikov concluded, in the same dry tone. "And what was your point, Comrade Khanov?"

"Tovarisch Kombat, I ask what would be the more serious mistake—missing the shot window, or firing the wrong kind of ammunition?" Khanov managed to rattle out, the strain perceptible in his voice. "Assuming one or the other was inevitable."

"Inevitable?" Novikov repeated the English word Khanov had abruptly used, as though there might be some confusion over its meaning when there was none.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Novikov stared at Khanov, with harsh blue eyes from underneath the plastic visor of his cap. Aleksandr couldn't even guess what came next, and suspected no one else could either. Possible even Konstantin Novikov.

The silence finally broke. "All this fuss over knobs," the senior lieutenant said with a sigh, giving Novikov a knowing look. The major turned his head and gave the senior lieutenant a different look, a What, do you object to me doing my job? kind of look, Aleksandr thought. The senior lieutenant gave him a look back, clearly unimpressed and increasingly unsympathetic.

Novikov turned back. "Show of hands, has anyone else had Comrade Khanov's experience?"

Some hands went up, almost a dozen. The major's shoulders sank in disappointment before rising again. The hands went down, and Novikov strolled over to the lieutenant by the wall. Aleksandr, and everyone else, strained to hear their hushed conversation.

"I've been telling you, they need more time in simulators. You can't just drill this sort of thing out of them with real ordnance, not underground! It's loud, it's costly, and it's not natural!"

"What part of any of this is natural, comrade? Tell me what part!" he replied with clear sarcasm.

"How much does that incomplete monster cost below us, and they can't spare a few million for a handful of simulators?"

"No disrespect, comrade, but you're not a tank man, you're a BMP man."

"I said that exact thing when they sent me here. You were there!" Novikov raised a hand cutting off the tank troops senior lieutenant. "Like arguing with a goddamn tape recorder," Novikov said more loudly before turning back to the crews.

"I'd hope in your time here you'd know I value honesty. And here I could relate some boring story about Gromyko and Stalin about honesty among 'good comrades and good communists', but that would be an even greater waste of our time."

"Too late for that," Aleksandr heard someone whisper in a not-entirely-unsympathetic manner.

"I'm not completely indifferent to the problems," Novikov explained. "Actually, not that long ago, I wasn't that far removed from yourselves. I don't like blaming people for honest mistakes. But you have to correct that. So…"

"So everyone load back up and get ready to do it all over again!" the lieutenant barked, loud enough for Novikov to twitch before giving him an annoyed look. "Come on, boys!" he shouted before looking at Novikov and mouthing what?

From her high perch, Mari kept watching as the drama came to a grinding, awkward halt, the Suvorovets began dispersing from their lines and back into their machines, and Major Novikov returned to an argument with his senior lieutenant that was immediately inaudible when the tanks came back to live with their loud gas turbines. She found them both on the observation deck a few minutes later; it was hard to exaggerate how surprised they were to see her, by herself. The senior lieutenant seemed shocked into silence, as were the rest of the staff looking up from their video monitors and instruments, eyes widening.

"Comrade Pilot," Novikov said when he found his words, putting his visor cap back on as if to distract from his surprise. "What can I do for you?"

She was glad she had discarded the Americans. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No, no," he assured her, to some nervous laughter from the staff. "Are you going to be?" he asked, half-serious.

She cocked her head, implying she didn't understand the question. "It's about one of your boys."

The exercises had concluded when the alarm sounded in their helmets again. The three boys in Tank No. 13 held their helmets against their heads, inadvertently making it worse, until a voice spoke through.

"Cadet Orbay, report to observation. Cadets Mirsaidov and Tikhonov, you're free to finish up with the rest of the regiment."

Sitting on his open hatch, Mikhail gave Aleksandr a look. Vanya did the same when he was able to coax his head around the main gun's barrel almost directly above him.

"And no, this is not about your problem with knobs. Just get over here, comrade."

Aleksandr heaved a sigh and patted Mikhail on the arm before disembarking carefully by throwing himself off the engine deck and scrambling safely out of traffic. The observation gallery was at the end of the primary tunnel, commanding a long view of the corridor but was mostly served by extensive cameras feeding video to the staff from the safety of an armored wall of ballistic glass. At the top of the stairway, through ballistic glass doors, he found Novikov, the senior lieutenant, and a junior lieutenant in one of NERV's drab grey daily uniforms with orange highlights studying at a particularly massive LED monitor fixed at a low angel beneath them, filled with digital representations of their own tanks on maneuver.

"Sirs!" He shouted and saluted quickly, getting their attention. "Cadet-Sergeant Orbay reporting. Comrade Major Novikov, I-…"

Novikov put up a leather-gloved hand impatiently, then gestured with it. Behind them, on the opposite end of the floor, were banks of boxy computer servers with dim green and red flickering lights. Between two rows of them stood a girl in a NERV-issued baggy tracksuit. Aleksandr was unable to keep his face from lighting back up before he turned to Novikov.

He preempted him. "Don't thank me. And don't apologize again. Just go and talk to your new girlfriend over there." he announced, taking a thick stack of papers bound with rubber bands from the senior lieutenant and heading for the same glass door. "I didn't call her that. Go talk to the Provisional Unit Pilot."

"Yes sir! Of course, sir!"

While Aleksandr scampered off, the major remained at the door, head cocked, feeling the heft of the bound papers in his hands before returning to the inclined monitor and shoving the packet into the hands of the NERV lieutenant. He took nearby keyboard and tapped out a few keystrokes, causing the display to go blank. "Let's pretend that NERV cares about these little exercises. Or not," he announce mockingly at the NERV lieutenant, who hid her smile behind the massive packet. "Do what you will."

"What changed your mind? Earlier, I mean," she asked.

Novikov gave the senior lieutenant an incredulous look, clearly intended for the NERV lieutenant. "Ever wonder how long it takes ninety-six teenagers to tear one thirty-year-old man apart?" he asked dryly.

The senior lieutenant took a step towards him. "Honest to god, Konstantin Dmitrievich, I think they like you."

"Really? You think they like being yelled out about…knobs…by some glorified infantry doctor?" He turned to the NERV lieutenant and made a shooing gesture with his leather gloves. "You, scat! Go and conscript some other teenagers, mine are no good!"