A boom rocked the left side. Shrapnel clanged off the armored skin. A tire blew—run-flat, but still. Eva wrestled the yoke as the M1120 slewed toward a ditch.
She popped the rear hatch. Inside, stacked in shock-resistant cradles, were forty-seven encrypted data cores—the last uncorrupted navigation maps for the entire theater.
“Welcome back, Driver Rojas,” said the onboard AI, voice flat as a dead highway. “Mission profile: 440 miles. Contested electronic warfare zone. Expect GPS degradation after the 200-kilometer mark.”
“Tell supply their M1120 has a few new holes,” she replied. “But the cargo’s intact. All of it.”
The AI powered down with a soft click. In the sudden silence, Eva rubbed her eyes. Some drivers called the M1120 a coffin. But right now, sitting in the dark with the smell of coolant and her own sweat, she thought it felt more like a lifeline.
At mile 438, the forward operating base’s beacon appeared on the passive sensor array. Eva could see the Hesco barriers, the faint glow of chem-lights along the perimeter. She killed the engine two klicks out and coasted—silent, dark, cold.