Jason stared out from his position on the wall of FOB Chicken Hawk. He looked at nothing in particular. Though he scanned his sector for terrs his mind was on his lost pod. It had taken Jason the better part of a year to get the damaged Armored Pod he’d found to the level of repair he’d achieved. 

In one evening, all of Jason’s hard work was wiped away. 

Vince and his technicians had set to work dismantling Jason’s labor of love to repair Task Unit Commander Gray’s AP. Jason understood the utilitarian need. Gray’s AP functioned, and Squadron headquarters couldn’t push logistics convoys with the required AP parts to FOB Chicken Hawk in light of expected terr attacks in sector. It would have been foolish for Vince to leave prime AP parts just sitting there simply because of Jason’s feelings toward the pod. 

It didn’t make it any easier for Jason to accept. All my work gone, Jason thought as he scanned the fields and plains surrounding FOB Chicken Hawk. I’ll never get a pod now. 

Jason had to admit his dream of piloting a pod had been a pipe dream in the first place. Even if he completed work on the damaged pod, no other parts such as guns, legs, and other chassis were readily available. Task Unit Commander Gray only had his pod and associated attachments due to the military’s supply chain, his rank, and his experience – Jason had none of that for a pod of his own. 

“Are you still griping about that pod?” Gabe stood to Jason’s left. 

“Huh?” Jason asked as he turned to face Gabe. 

“What were you going to do with it if you did fix it?” Gabe asked. 

“Pilot it.” Jason recognized the ridiculousness of his statement even before the words left his mouth. 

“With what other parts?” Gabe asked. 

Jason sighed and turned back to scanning his sector. “I don’t know, man. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just wanted to get it fixed and then. . .” Jason’s voice trailed off. 

“You may not have an Armored Pod,” Carlos said from Jason’s right, “but I’m glad you’re our element commander.” 

Jason turned to Carlos and smiled. “Thanks.” 

“Now stop griping,” Carlos spat. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason said with a frown. 

“You had a pod?” a woman’s voice asked. 

Jason turned around to see Kveta Grof standing behind and below him inside the FOB, hands on her hips. The walls of the FOB weren’t particularly high, and Jason was sure the voices of he and his men carried as they bantered away. 

“It was a damaged one I found in a farmer’s field a while back,” Jason said. “I had been working to fix it.” 

“And then it had to be used to fix your TUC’s A-P,” Kveta said. She pronounced the abbreviation for Task Unit Commander as “tuck” instead of saying each letter. 

“That is such a weird way to say the Task Unit Commander’s rank,” Jason said. 

“It’s how we say it in the city,” Kveta replied. 

“Well, we’re not in the city,” Jason countered. “How do y’all say Element Commander?” 

“E-C.” 

“I guess that’s normal.” 

“So now you have no pod,” Kevta said, changing the subject. 

“Right,” Jason sighed. “I guess I never really did. Was a nice thought.” Jason turned back to face the plains and hills surrounding the FOB. “It is what it is.” 

“So now what?” Kveta asked. 

Jason shrugged. “Now I lead my element with my truck.” 

“Issued to you by the Army.” 

Jason shook his head but didn’t turn around. “Nope, it’s mine, bought and paid for. The Army needs vehicles, especially out here in the boonies, so we irregulars, and some regular army, get to keep their personal vehicles and obtain leadership positions that way. That’s why I’m element commander.” 

“So, it’s not based on your abilities,” Kveta said. 

Jason was about to reply when the seven men of his element erupted in raucous laughter. 

“That’s for damn sure,” Berny said. 

“If Jason didn’t have that truck, he’d be a grunt like us,” Andy said. 

Carlos nudged Jason in the shoulder with his elbow. “I’d probably be E-C if that was the case.” 

“Maybe we wouldn’t get shot up so much,” Gabe added. 

“Hilarious,” Jason said with a frown. 

Jason turned to see Kveta with a grin on her face. 

“Why do you want to know?” Jason asked. 

“Just curious,” Kveta said, then turned to walk away. “I want to know what I’m dealing with out here away from the city.” 

Jason turned back to the wall and shook his head. “Typical city folk,” he said, voice low to make sure Kveta couldn’t hear him. “Thinking they’re better than us.” 

“She is better than us,” Carlos replied. “From her new gear to her fine-” 

An explosion a hundred meters to Jason’s right and in front of the wall cut off Carlos’ words. 

“Contact!” Multiple voices along the wall cried out in unison. 

Someone down the line along the wall pointed out and away from the FOB. “Here they come!” 

Jason looked up to see a long line of personnel and an array of technicals crest a small hill to bear down on FOB Chicken Hawk and its defenders. Several of the technicals – civilian vehicles modified into weapons of war, like Jason’s pickup truck – sported recoilless rifles. Jason could see the crews on the back of the technical which mounted the recoilless rifles work to load more rounds and yell at the drivers to slow down. 

Task Unit Commander Gray’s voice filled Jason’s ears via the headset he wore. “All Hawk elements, this is Hawk Actual, weapons free!” 

“Light them up!” Jason exclaimed. 

Half a moment later the air was filled with rounds of multiple calibers flying toward the oncoming hoard of terrs. Some troops guarding the walls of FOB Chicken Hawk hadn’t waited for the order, and were already changing magazines to pour more fire into the advancing enemy. One-hundred-twenty-millimeter mortars were launched into the air from the backs of TU-17 technicals to fall and explode amidst the clumps of oncoming enemy. Terrorist troops began to fall left and right, struck by the bullets of Task Unit One-Seven. 

A heavy machine gun mounted in one of FOB Chicken Hawk’s towers raked back and forth over two enemy technicals. The .50 caliber rounds punched into the vehicles’ engine blocks and windshields, and into their drivers. One technical rolled to a stop, its driver little more than a red mess in the shattered glass-covered driver’s seat. The driver of the second technical jerked as he was hit and turned the wheel. The second technical swerved hard before it tipped over on its side and spilled its occupants and their weapons all over the plains. They were sitting ducks for the TU-17 defenders. 

“This is too easy!” Vic exclaimed before he took aim and sank a burst of rounds into a particularly skinny, short terr jogging toward the FOB amidst the hail of fire. 

“They’re either very brave or very stupid running in the open like that,” said Vic. 

Jason continued to mash the butterfly trigger of the Ma Deuce he pulled from his truck to mount on the FOB wall. “That is a fine line.” 

While the terr attack had begun strong, it seemed to quickly taper off as the defenders’ resolve repulsed them. A handful of terrorist personnel and technicals had made it to the wall, only to receive the gift of grenades and automatic fire from above. Several terrs and technicals exploded in the middle of the plain when hit just right, apparently strapped with improvised explosive devices to destroy the FOB wall. 

Jason sensed this particular battle was over – an underwhelming performance compared to the details in the intel they uncovered, in Jason’s opinion – when another sound filled the air over the din of combat. The sound was greeted by cheers and hollers from the terrs. Suddenly, the battle flared up again as enemy troops who had been fleeing or hiding found renewed courage and motivation at the thing which entered the battlefield on their side. 

“Armored pod!” someone from down the line yelled. 

Jason watched as the AP crested a small hill. It looked similar to Task Unit Commander Gray’s – reverse joint bipedal legs, standard bulky power pack and communications suite on the back, and a gun mounted on either side of the spherical pod. It was a standard, widely available load out from the war.  

The enemy AP began to pelt the FOB wall with thirty-millimeter autocannon fire. Some shots fell short and hit the ground around FOB Chicken Hawk, some rounds even hit some of the terrs charging the FOB. Not the best pilot, Jason thought. A few rounds from the enemy AP found their mark, and the FOB wall shook, dirt, sand and debris spilling from the block barriers comprising the fortification. 

Jason heard the repeated thump of autocannon fire from the other side of the FOB. 

“All Hawk Elements, this is Hawk Actual, enemy Armored Pod at the FOB E-C-P,” Gray reported over the comm from his position at FOB Chicken Hawks entry control point. “Engaging.” 

“Two AP’s?” Gabe exclaimed with an added curse at the end. “We’re screwed!” 

Jason discounted Gabe’s perception of events as he saw an opportunity in the chaos. 

“Gabe, with me,” Jason said suddenly. 

“W-what?” Gabe stammered. 

Jason turned to Carlos. “Keep up the fire up here, see if any of the other elements can spare a few rocket launchers.” 

“What the hell are you going to do?” Carlos shot back. 

Jason didn’t respond to Carlos’ question. Instead, Jason flipped his Ma Deuce to rest over his left shoulder and dragged at Gabe’s torn brown shirt with his right hand. Gabe looked at Jason wide-eyed. 

“What are we doing?” Gabe asked as he followed Jason off the FOB palisade and toward Jason’s parked pickup truck. 

“We’re going to take out that AP,” Jason replied. 

“Y-you’re nuts!” Gabe exclaimed. “You’re going to get us killed.” 

“Not today,” Jason replied. “Now drive.” 

“My mom was right.” Gabe’s tone was dejected. “I should have stayed in finance.” 

Jason mounted and locked the .50 caliber machine gun back on top of the pickup, then slapped the vehicle’s roof. “Gun it!” 

Gabe hit the gas the moment the truck started up. Jason was forced to hold on for dear life as Gabe followed his orders and made the beat-up maroon pickup fly through the FOB and out the ECP. To Jason’s left he could see Gray’s AP engaging with the other enemy AP. It was clear Gray had the upper hand as his twin autocannons pummeled the enemy AP in the machine’s weak spots in the joints and weapon mount points. Gray didn’t move slow, but methodically, taking cover behind a small stand of trees when the enemy AP got a bead on him, only to appear on the other side to hammer the enemy machine again. The enemy AP pilot seemed stressed and erratic, and shots that should have hit Gray’s AP went wide. Task Unit Commander Gray walked his AP forward to finish off the terr machine. 

“Drive around the FOB and toward the other enemy A-P,” Jason ordered Gabe. 

“I’m going to die,” Jason heard Gabe say from the driver’s seat. “This is it. Today’s the day.” 

Despite his misgivings Gabe kept his foot on the gas and propelled the pickup faster over the rolling plains. Soon the other enemy AP was in sight. The bipedal walking metal ball had closed the distance to the FOB wall, and the TU-17 defenders were hard pressed to repel it. 

As they plowed through the battlefield Jason and Gabe passed groups of terr fighters advancing on the FOB. Some of the terrs took pot shots at them, but many just gaped at what they saw, unsure what to do. 

Jason depressed the Ma Deuce’s butterfly trigger with his thumbs and rained .50 caliber rounds into the terr AP.  

“Drive into him,” Jason ordered. 

Gabe said something undistinguishable as he hit the gas harder. The pickups engine revved louder as Gabe and Jason practically flew toward the enemy AP. The terr AP suddenly seemed to notice Jason firing at it, and turned its guns toward him as he neared. As the enemy machine turned to bring Jason and Gabe into its crosshairs it lifted a three-toed metal foot. 

“Turn and break!” Jason exclaimed. 

Suddenly, inertia pulled Jason the direction he had been going as Gabe swung the pickup around at the last minute and broke hard. The side of the truck slammed into the terr AP’s still planted foot. Jason braced himself in the bed of the pickup and held onto his machine gun with a white-knuckled grip. 

Jason knew it had been a gamble. The AP was significantly heavier than his little pickup by several tons. Normally a maneuver like this would barely have phased the AP and its pilot. But, the force of the crash with the AP’s foot in the air, the other foot at an odd angle on plains, and the poor piloting by the terr inside created the opportunity Jason needed – and it paid off. 

The terr AP pitched forward and left to crash to the ground. A cheer rose from the FOB wall and the TU-17 defenders repulsed the advancing terrs with renewed vigor. Though rattled from the crash with the AP Jason didn’t hesitate to launch himself from the back of the pickup and toward the spherical pod itself. 

A smart AP pilot would have remained calm in the situation the terr AP was in. Though grounded, it still had use of its autocannons and could still wreak havoc on the walls of FOB Chicken Hawk, perhaps even kill some of the TU-17 troops. A very skilled AP pilot could have even stood the machine back up and returned to the fight. The terr pilot was neither smart nor skilled. He tried moving the AP’s feet, only to grind them into the dry, plains soil. At the same time the terr pilot swung both autocannons wildly. In the end, the enemy pilot managed only to dig him and his AP a shallow grave. 

At first Jason gave the AP a wide berth, a personal 9mm pistol held up and ready in the event any other terrs approached. When the enemy AP pilot decided to stop moving, Jason rushed the pod. 

“Come on out!” Jason ordered, his voice sharp and deep. “Surrender, or we’ll blow this A-P with you in it.” 

There was a pause, and for a moment Jason thought the terr pilot decided to take his chances and hunker down in his armored shell. A moment later there was a hiss and the sound of machinery, and the front of the spherical pod folded open. A bedraggled, elderly man in a threadbare cut-off brown shirt and olive drab shorts stomped out of the pod, his torn-up hiking boots thumping off the pod’s metal armor. 

“I surrender,” the elder terr said in a gruff voice. 

* 

Soon the battle was over. With the loss of both of their APs and dozens, if not hundreds, of their fighters, the terrs fled in disorganized retreat from FOB Chicken Hawk. 

Reports from Squadron HQ spilled in after the battle. Similar battles played out throughout the area of operations. Other combat task units and Squadron Headquarters repelled legions of terrorist forces augmented by one or two Armored Pods each. Some of the pods were clearly salvaged wrecks from The War, but others were of newer manufacture. Squadron intel believed it meant one of the governments further West had begun supplying the terrorists to a greater degree than before. 

With the battle over and the elderly terr AP pilot handed over to the Intel Task Unit Eleven personnel for questioning, Jason wanted to recover his prize. 

“You want to what?” Brad Feldman asked. 

Jason stood in the Task Unit headquarters. Task Unit Commander Josiah Gray sat behind his desk in front of Jason. Brad and the Task Unit’s head mechanic, Vince, stood to Jason’s left. 

“That was reckless,” Gray said, his tone cold. “You could have been killed, along with your driver.” 

“But it worked,” Jason countered. 

Gray was silent, acquiescing to Jason’s logic. 

“Who the hell do you think you are, claiming an A-P?” Brad asked. 

“An irregular,” Gray said, his voice a growl. “You know the laws.” 

Jason tried not to smile, but the thought of what he had achieved made it difficult. “In an effort to attract and maintain irregular forces, irregulars may claim salvage of enemy equipment and material directly neutralized by that individual.” Jason quoted the law almost verbatim. 

The laws surrounding irregular troops – once called National Guard or Reserves – were written shortly after The War when the government found itself short troops. Along with the requirement irregular units be pulled from the same town, or at least the same county, irregulars were also allowed to claim battlefield salvage. Active military, on the other hand, were generally required to pool battlefield salvage into the unit’s motor pool, except in cases where there was a certain level of excess. 

Brad cursed colorfully and loudly. 

“That’s the law, sir,” Jason said. “I request assets to retrieve my prize.” 

Gray stared hard and long at Jason. 

“Fine,” Gray finally said. “Vince, help Element Commander Brenner retrieve his salvage. Make it quick.” 

“Yes sir,” Vince replied. 

“Thank you, sir,” Jason said. 

Outside Task Unit HQ and out of view of Gray and Brad Feldman, Vince held up a fist. “Congrats, man.” 

Jason knocked fists with Vince. “Thanks.” 

“Now, let’s go get you’re A-P.”