Prepper

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Caterpillars. For some this evokes images of the larval stage of an insect. A creature destined to metamorphose into a colorful and graceful winged wonder whose dried remains I eventually have to scrape off my windshield with a credit card. For me however, caterpillar reminds me of long, hot summer days working in a dusty, sandy quarry doing back-breaking manual labour while dodging the massive treaded tires of the heavy machines as to not end up like the wayward butterfly. 

I recall the iconic black and yellow machines fondly, despite the awful conditions; the blistered hands and the sand that got everywhere. Occasionally, when work was slow, a couple of the operators would call me up to the cab and give me quick lessons on how to run the machines. The lumbering mechanical beasts were fantastically powerful, clawing away at the earth. Huge and powerful, like that tank.

"Cat! That's it!" I shout and break into a run. Although I am certain they think I have lost my mind, Hartt and Jake are right on my heels.

"What the hell, Connor?" Jake yells.

"Caterpillar!" I reply.

"Cater-what?" He says.

I ignore him. "Hartt, I gotta talk to the Lieutenant now!"

"Okay, but slow down, you are going to get us shot." Hartt shouts.

I fall back to a very brisk walk and indeed I see one of the soldiers in a Coyote tracking us with the machine gun. I wave.

"Don't wave you retard!" Jake chastises.

Hartt gets me an audience with the Lieutenant almost immediately. With the exception of us, the Lieutenant and the Sergeant-Major, the tent is empty. I get a more formal introduction to Lieutenant Mott. He is the standing commanding officer of what remains of the two reserve units, a condition forced upon him due to attrition of leadership. In other words, the other officers are dead.

Mott is a serious man, maybe in his mid-thirties, or maybe his weathered skin makes him appear older. Or perhaps the enormous weight of the current situation, the stress and lack of sleep has aged him. He has a thick neck and a square jaw, his coppery hair is cut short and he doesn't look too thrilled about us busting in here.

"Corporal Hartt has expressed to me that you might have some information of great strategic importance, Mr. Killoren. Is this true, or should I be returning Mr. Hartt to the rank of private?" He says in a distinctly east coast accent.

"Sir," I begin. "I'll be honest, you make me a little nervous." It's like talking with Mr. Hennemann, which is strange because I might be older than this guy.

"Never mind, just say what you are here to say."

"Okay, the GFA have that tank, right?"

"Yes, they have a tank."

"Okay, the tank, it's like a heavyweight boxer. We can't put lightweights in the same ring, we can't use the G-Wagons or Coyotes or your limo."

"My what?" Mott says shooting a glance at the Sergeant-Major, who clearly knows what I am talking about. However, the Sergeant-Major remains eyes forward and says nothing. Behind Mott Hartt is giving me that hand at the throat signal. "Errr, I mean the TAPV." I correct myself.

"Uh-huh, continue."

"We need a heavyweight of our own."

"Yes, but we have been through this, we have nothing with anti-tank capabilities, or a tank of our own. No artillery and no air support. Basically everything we have is parked right here and most of that is damaged."

"True. But what about something else, something big, like a tank, heavy like a tank."

"What would that be?"