This Is Not My Tank
Royal Navy of the United Kingdom, 1st Fleet Flagship.
The battleship H.M.S. Monarch.
The forty-thousand-ton steel monster did not so much as tremble in the rough swells. And yet, for all its overwhelming majesty, the air on the bridge had sunk into a heavy gloom.
"...It's over."
Admiral William stared down at the map spread across the table, his face drawn with worry.
"The Republic's defensive lines, held for hundreds of years, breached in a matter of days. And they crossed the Ashen Forest, of all things?"
"Yes, sir. No one anticipated the route."
Lieutenant Colonel Sterling of the Intelligence Agency held out a single document.
"Here it is, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Max Jäger. The true architect of this operation — and its spearhead."
"Never heard the name. Not Falkenheim, then, but this whelp?"
"A year ago he was still a second lieutenant. But within the Imperial Army today, they call him 'the Ghost of Rosenheim' — or 'the Miracle Man.'"
Sterling lowered his voice.
"The defense of Rosenheim, horizontal fire from the 88mm anti-aircraft guns, the breakthrough through the Ashen Forest, the capture of Soissons. Behind every inexplicable victory the Imperial Army has scored lately, this man has been there."
"He killed tanks with anti-aircraft guns? That's madness."
"Mad, but effective. The Republic's Renard heavy tanks were punched through like tin cans."
Admiral William studied the eyes of Max Jäger in the photograph. In the young officer's gaze, he could read a rare seasoned craft — and a ruthlessness of cold reason that bordered on the pathological.
"What's even more remarkable is his administrative ability."
Sterling turned over the back page of the report.
"Soissons was on the brink of open riot immediately after its capture. Yet within three days of his taking office as acting garrison commander, the city had recovered its function. Logistics are running normally, and the citizens are cooperating with the Imperial Army."
"Impossible. The Imperial supply line must be at its limit by now? And you're telling me they handed out bread without a shred of looting?"
"Our intelligence is certain, sir. There are even reports of him repairing a broken tank in a single night. Among the Republic's stragglers, rumor has it he works magic."
"Magic? Naturally that's rubbish. Craft that conjures something out of nothing — there's no such thing in this world."
William snorted.
"But."
His eyes were not smiling.
"An officer talented enough to ignore the limits of logistics... that much is certain: he is a more dangerous man than Falkenheim. There is nothing more frightening than an army that doesn't starve."
"The home parliament's position is to maintain a watchful stance."
"Idiotic old fools."
William ground his cigar out in the ashtray.
"Sterling. Raise this man's surveillance grade."
"Not mere observation, then — a person of special interest?"
"No."
The admiral shook his head.
"Designate him for elimination. Top priority."
Sterling doubted his own ears.
"Admiral, that's a classification reserved for enemy field marshals. Isn't it far too great an honor for a lieutenant colonel newly risen in the field?"
It was certainly an order beyond all common sense. But William only gazed intently through the photograph, into the eyes of Max Jäger.
"Yes. That is true."
"Then—"
"And yet it gnaws at me."
The admiral cut Sterling off.
"It reminds me of something. The first time I laid eyes on that old warmonger, Ludwig von Stahlberg."
"Th-that can't be..."
Sterling swallowed dryly. A man comparable to Field Marshal Ludwig, the legend of the Northern Front? The mere mention of that name seemed to chill the air on the bridge.
"For the Empire to possess two such monsters... it is a nightmare for us. These aren't predictable fools like Henri. They are variables that rewrite the very rules of war."
William turned his gaze to the window. At that moment, a rough wave surged in and smashed itself against the battleship's steel hull.
KRA-BOOM—
The white spray, shattered to mist, was soon swallowed whole by the cigar smoke William exhaled.
"No one could have predicted any of this, Admiral. Who would have imagined such a genius would simply pop up out of nowhere in the Empire?"
"Indeed. It is an age where nothing is certain. I only... pray my presentiment proves wrong."
William added quietly:
"For if it doesn't, then we are standing by, watching a monster be born."
Three weeks after the capture of Soissons.
The streets of Soisson were noticeably calm.
Barely a fortnight earlier, these same streets had been thick with the smoke of Molotov cocktails and tear gas; now, when Imperial troops passed by, the citizens no longer went out of their way to block the road or glare. They simply stepped aside, indifferent.
Though when a military truck loaded to the brim with bread rolled into view, even that indifference gave way, and a crowd would surge in.
"Well, look at that. Flour pure white as snow. Beats our army rations full of sawdust by a country mile."
As a middle-aged man marveled over his freshly baked loaf, the old man beside him clicked his tongue.
"Shh! Keep your voice down, you fool. However hungry you are, that's going too far — it's feed thrown to us by invaders, isn't it?"
But the man snorted and took a huge bite of the steaming bread.
"So what if they're invaders? The Republican bastards ran off and cut the bridges behind them — they'd have drowned the whole city in the river to save their own skins."
"That was... a tactical retreat..."
"Tactics, my foot! The Empire showed up and fixed those very bridges first. And you know what they paid for the labor? Silver coin. Silver! Not scraps of paper fit for nothing but wiping your backside!"
At that, the women nearby perked up and chimed in.
"That's right! My old man went out to the rail repair work yesterday and came home with a whole crate of canned meat. You should've seen the children eat!"
"Patriotism? Ha. Does that fill our children's bellies?"
"Agh! The world's gone to the dogs, I tell you! There are limits to selling your soul!"
The old man waved his cane and barked, but all he got back was scorn.
"If you're such a patriot, Grandpa, then starve to death. The rest of us intend to live."
"Oh, for heaven's sake! My own child is about to starve right now, and shouting 'Long live the Republic' won't make bread fall from the sky!"
In the end, the old man shut his mouth. Red-faced, he stole a furtive glance around, then shuffled to the very end of the ration line on his cane.
For a shrunken stomach is always more honest than a tattered pride.
Let them prattle all they liked about ideology and homeland — what mattered most to the citizens, in the end, was a warm slice of bread and a few coins of silver.
The city of Soissons has reached a stable state.
Experience has increased slightly.
The system window floated up before my eyes as I idly watched the scene outside. I read through it at my leisure.
A honey pot, pure and simple.
Out on the front lines, experience came only at the cost of your life. Here, it trickled in on schedule just for stamping the right papers. If I could hold out like this for a month, Level 22 might even be within reach.
"Colonel, the censorship report from the post office."
Hanna set down a file folder.
"Anything unusual?"
"Postmaster Jean Bernard has been most cooperative. He filtered out three suspicious letters — the decrypted cipher turned out to be coordinates for a weapons cache hidden by the remnants. The military police are out collecting it now."
"Excellent."
I smiled with satisfaction.
"And the railway union has withdrawn its strike as well. It seems Monsieur Pierre... persuaded his colleagues most passionately."
"'Persuaded.' Nothing persuades quite like holding a man's weakness as a spy in your fist."
Everything ran smooth as clockwork. The city's administration, its security, its supply. The gears turned with the slick ease of a well-oiled machine.
Save for one thing that creaked.
"...Major Frederica has requested an interview."
Hanna's voice had stiffened, ever so slightly.
"Show her in."
I set down my cup, deliberately feigning ignorance.
Soon the door opened and Frederica entered — the armored officer with the ash-gray bob.
But her expression was strange. Gone was the sharp, haughty poise of the usual elite; in its place she fidgeted like a puppy desperate for something, utterly unable to hold still.
"What is it, Major? The reconditioning of your tank battalion should be finished by now."
"Ah, yes... I came to report something."
She shuffled up to my desk.
"The technical support team dispatched from home command returned yesterday. Vehicle 101... the repairs on my tank are complete as well."
"Good news. The engineers must have had a rough time of it."
In the last ambush operation, Vehicle 101 had taken a hit from enemy rocket shrapnel — part of the armor plating and the suspension were wrecked. The engine must have taken a shock too.
"So? What's her condition? With the Empire's finest engineers on her, she ought to run like new."
At my question, Frederica's brow creased faintly. She hesitated, her lips fluttering, then spoke with great care.
"That... is the problem."
"Problem?"
"Yes. The repairs are... perfect. According to the manual, that is."
Frederica sighed and dropped her head.
In her mind flashed the argument she'd had with the technical officer only yesterday.
"Major, what on earth could possibly be your complaint? Output nominal, hydraulics nominal, and we set track tension within a tolerance of half a millimeter!"
The technical captain from home command shouted as if wronged.
But every time Frederica sat in the commander's seat and turned her over, irritation boiled up inside her.
Rumble — bang, bang.
"You hear that? That sound?"
"What sound, Major? That's a vigorous engine note, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't! Cylinder three fires a hair behind the beat! And when I shift, the way the gears mesh is... coarse. Like something's grinding sand between them!"
"Haah... Major. This is a tank that's been ground through the field. That degree of vibration is perfectly natural."
"It is not! It wasn't like this before! Last week she was smooth as silk! Press the throttle and she'd slide out onto the ice like a skater! So why is she like this now?!"
"Last week, you say? Wasn't your drivetrain half-destroyed at the time? It must be your imagination, Major!"
The technical captain packed up his things, treating Frederica like a germaphobe of machinery.
"This is Imperial Army standard specification, Major. Any greater precision is physically impossible."
And with that, the technical team left. What remained was Vehicle 101, "perfectly repaired," and Frederica, standing abandoned in its wake.
With trembling hands, she stroked the tank's armor plate.
Cold.
And the crude vibration that shook up through her seat when she turned the engine over.
This isn't it...
Before the operation, she had been different. Vehicle 101, as touched by Lieutenant Colonel Max Jäger — no, by that mysterious engineer — had been something else entirely.
The engine had purred soft and low, the gears meshed seamless and buttery.
That sense of oneness, as if forty tons of steel had become part of her own body.
It had been a curse.
Once her senses had tasted ultra-precision, high-end craftsmanship, there was no returning to the crude roughness of standard-issue ever again.
"This is... a pile of scrap."
To Frederica now, even a tank rebuilt to spec by the Empire's finest engineers felt like nothing more than a rattling heap of junk.
"...So. You're telling me you simply cannot bear to drive her."
At my question, Frederica flushed and nodded.
"Yes... The feel is... completely different. Every time my driver shifts gears, it grates on him so badly his spine goes cold. And turret traverse is a full two-tenths of a second slower..."
She clenched her fists.
"Colonel. I ask this against all shame, but—"
"Speak."
"Could you... could you bring that engineer back?"