Fourteen: They Never Had a Chance

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2052 Old Germany

“This is a restricted zone… all non-Durenberger personnel are prohibited from inhabiting this area. Come out with your hands up and you will not be harmed.” The loud speaker on the tank squalled as the microphone clicked off. Gears in the great mechanical monster whined as the turret rotated to face the building that Mwamba and Wayland were in. A half dozen infantry scattered into the surrounding area, taking up firing positions ready for a firefight. Everyone waited, the Syndicate militia waited to see if the two soldiers would emerge from the building or not, the Reckoners waited to see if they would have to kill the entire squad or not.

A shell was loaded into the chamber of the tank, Mwamba heard it click into place and a firing pin set behind it. At his feet, the communicators from the dead soldiers squawked with tinny voices calling for status reports, reports that would never be answered, nor reissued.

Bludgeon came from an unexpected angle: above. Descending on the great metal behemoth like a mythic angel from the heavens, he hit the turret feet first, just hard enough to make an audible thud, but not hard enough for anyone to realize what just happened. Rolling off the top in one motion, it appeared at first that he had simply jumped onto the roof of the artillery turret and harmlessly rolled off, but Mwamba knew better.

Silence ducked around the corner to protect himself from the blast.

The tank crew never knew what hit them. The incendiary device that Wayland had carefully placed on the hatch went off. Only slightly larger than a football, the explosive was essentially an 8-inch diameter metal pipe, shut off at one end, and approximately ten inches long. The side that was not closed off by metal was encased with only a soft layer of stretched industrial plastic. Inside the device is a cocktail of high end explosives, and incendiary agents like magnesium, all of which is tightly wrapped in a thin sheet of copper. When ignited, the compound burns at about 2200 degrees Fahrenheit and will melt straight through a meter of solid reinforced steel plating like a warm knife cuts through butter. When attached to a vehicle like the tank that Bludgeon had doomed, the compound ignites any explosive rounds it comes into contact, causing the ammunition to discharge inside the confined space.

The device detonated, the tank shook violently, and suddenly a fireball of death came roaring out of the barrel of the mounted gun. The third floor of the structure disintegrated and the very foundation gave way from the sudden surge of stress. Mwamba darted through the doorway, cutting through a soldier who was just around the corner but had been trying to hide from the explosion. His throat exploded and shot an arc of blood that caught the late afternoon light and sparkled for a brief moment.

Across the street, Bludgeon rolled onto his feet and grappled with a soldier standing a few feet away from the smoking death box, and within two seconds time disarmed the man and snapped his neck like a chicken. The soldier’s squad mate swiveled around, assault rifle barking out a line of bullets arcing menacingly towards Wayland.

Bludgeon rolled to the side, bullets following close behind, but before the soldier could readjust his aim enough, he fell limply to the ground, a small dart embedded in his throat. Across the street, Mwamba swiftly reloaded his dart gun with another poisonous round and took down another soldier who was frozen with fear. Both of the Reckoners quickly scanned the area for more enemies, and finding none, hurried down the street in an effort to clear the area before more patrols were alerted by the rising column of smoke billowing out of the tank’s blown hatch.

Far in the distance, an alarm began to sound its shrill voice.