The tank's turbines spooled up with a banshee shriek as Dresden feathered the throttle, trying to build up enough revs to get the 80 ton beast in a move in a hurry. That was a downside to turbine engines: great power to weight ratio, but you couldn't exactly shove the thing into gear from idle and expect results. The revs built to a deafening crescendo as the flywheel turned faster and faster and faster.
"C'mon, you big queen," the agent snarled, his eyes on the gages. "I swear to the Force, if you get us outta here, I'm gonna take you home and make you my everyday driver."
The hulking mass of durasteel and ceramic armor seemed to like that idea. A light on the dash shone green as the heavy flywheel reached operational speeds. Dresden shifted into drive, and it launched itself forward with enough force to cause whiplash to anyone not properly buckled in. All around them, hell broke loose as the Tribarrel started to give out. More and more heavy artillery rounds were slipping through the curtain of crimson bolts that streamed overhead in a seemingly solid wall of light. One of them exploded nearby, showering the tank with shrapnel and rocking its massive bulk like a small boat on rough seas. Myriad pings and dings could be heard inside, even over the howl of the engine, as bits of fragmented shell cases spattered off their hull.
That was too close for comfort. The tank's armor wasn't infallible. The still-smoking hole through the side of the breach was proof of that. Generally speaking, tanks were designed for fighting other tanks. They were hard enough to kill, and had enough guns, that they were deadly to anything that couldn't kill them if they got close enough, but they couldn't be strong everywhere. The top decks and rear of the vehicle were armored, but not anywhere near the level of the front glacis and reinforced flanks. That left them relatively vulnerable to artillery bombardment and top attack missiles. That, and overbuilt machineguns in the hands of an expert.
There was nothing that could be done about the machinegun thing, but there were few enough of those floating around that Dresden wasn't all that worried. Probably wasn't another one on the planet, and the GRTD would be incinerated when the Tribarrel's power pack finally depleted and the weapon self-destructed. The tank's active protection system was good for at least a couple missiles. Tank killers relied on achieving a certain standoff distance from the hull in order for their shaped charges to be effective. The active protection system consisted of directional mines on top of the tank. When they detected an incoming missile, the appropriate mine would explode, sending a cloud of tungsten pellets upwards to meet the threat. Best case scenario, they blew it to hell before it could explode. Worst case, the missile prematurely detonated, reducing its effectiveness by an order of magnitude.
However, the algorithms that searched the sky for threats required a thermal signature and an appropriate attack profile. An artillery shell was typically hot, but not missile hot, and had nowhere near the velocity of a missile on its way back down the gravity well. Shooting one down was, in theory, much easier than shooting down a missile, but they also weren't as much of a threat. The valuable directional mines weren't to be wasted on a mere shell, and that could be bad. A direct hit probably wouldn't kill the crew, but it would almost certainly kill the tank, blinding its sensors and rattling the turbine to uselessness. A near enough miss would pop the tracks right off, or send shrapnel through the armored slats that protected the radiator. Without tracks, the tank couldn't move. Without cooling, it couldn't move for long.
In short, they had to get the hell out of there, fast.
For the second time in as many minutes, the tank crashed through the walls of the prison. This time, Dresden didn't even try to slow down. The gun was karked anyway, and there wasn't much point to trying to keep it in working order. They quickly built up speed, roaring along over the uneven terrain, the torsion bar suspension soaking up the worst of the bumps. He didn't bother swerving around obstacles. Speeders were crushed. Garbage bins exploded, sending rubbish flying into the air like fetid confetti. He glanced over his shoulder, taking stock of his companions.
At least one was bleeding, badly. Wasn't much he could do about it, but she'd need medical attention fast.
"Evac, this is Oracle. Clear the ramp on the dropship. We've got wounded onboard and we don't have time to ditch the tank. Gonna need to pull a Bandit."
"Roger, Oracle. Proceed to the pickup point. We'll be waiting," came the reply.
He grinned maniacally. There weren't many dropship captains who were okay with the near suicidal Bandit maneuver. It was insanely dangerous, only used as a last resort. The agent had honestly expected to be told to kark off. His passengers must have rated pretty high on the First Order priority list, then.
He was doing better than a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour by the time the LZ came into view. The dropship was already in a low hover, the loading ramp nearly touching the ground. The crew chief had a portable radar gun in hand. He gauged the speed of the tank, its angle of approach, and shouted directions into his radio. Then he got the hell out of the way.
The pilot was better than good. Dresden figured if he wasn't an outright Force user, he had to have some sensitivity, because the way he handled the craft bordered on magic. It took off like a bolt, almost instantly matching speed with the tank before lining up in front of it.
"200 meters, Oracle. We've got you."
Dresden clicked the mic in acknowledgement, too focused on the task at hand to speak. They had exactly one shot at this, and if he karked it up, they were all going to be in for a world of hurt.
The dropship closed to within a scant ten meters of the front of the speeding tank. Dresden's only visual clue of his launch point was the loading ramp. He gunned the engine, gaining almost imperceptibly on the ship.
"NOW!"
The tank hit a small embankment, not enough to slow it down normally, but enough to launch the vehicle several meters into the air. The pilot deftly killed his speed just enough to catch the flying tank in the loading bay as Dresden slammed on the emergency brakes, halting the tracks with a hideous grinding noise as the final drive units welded themselves solid in a shower of sparks. Inside the hold, they were within the area of effect of the ship's inertial dampers. That meant that, when they touched down, instead of sending everyone hurling facefirst into nearest forward-facing interior surface, they only bounced lightly on the durasteel decking. Dresden hurriedly killed the engine as the cargo crew clamped the tracks to the deck.
The pilot was amazing. Not only had he caught the flying tank perfectly, he'd not even bumped the hull on the ground as 80 tons of armor came down on his deck. In lesser hands, the maneuver was almost guaranteed to bend the ship, the tank, and everyone onboard both. And that was with much lighter speeders or groundcars. Catching a tank was nothing short of a miracle.
"Pilot, this is Oracle. Fan-karking-tastic flying. I owe you a bottle of the oldest brandy I can afford."
"Roger that, Oracle," came the laconic reply. The pilot didn't sound like someone who'd just risked her ship, her life, and her career in near suicide. "I'm partial to Corellian. Once my crew chief tells me you're locked down, I'll send my flight surgeon back. Hang tight, Oracle. You're going home."
Dresden slumped back in his seat, his consciousness fading. His newly rebuilt body wasn't quite up for this sort of adventure yet, and now that the adrenaline was subsiding, it decided it was time to rest, whether he liked it or not. As his vision faded, he noticed, absently, a pair of glowing blue eyes staring at him, seemingly out of nowhere. It was the last thing he saw before the world turned black.
Kurayami Bloodborn
