Somewhere in Eastern Europe… 

The sky bled gray into the fog-choked streets, only the skeletal of buildings in brinks of collapse, and shattered windows, blurring the war-torn city into a spectral smudge. Four M1A3 Abrams behemoths rumbled through the desolation, led by a lone red demon - the Red Musket. Its full crimson gun barrel, turret and hull painted on black, green, and red dazzled slashed with black stripes, stood out like a defiant fist against the monochrome landscape. Gunfire echoes to the background but tank threads churning loudly into yet an eerie ghost town making the sound of a steel monster marching to its prey. 

Captain Gritz "Tiger" Wittmann is a man carved from the fires of war, his weathered face etched with the scars of countless battles. His eyes, a steely blue beneath a thicket of grizzled brows, hold the unwavering gaze of a predator, ever scanning the horizon with his 50 cal. machine gun for the next threat. Even amidst the deafening chaos of the battlefield, his presence commands respect, a silent authority radiating from his broad shoulders and the calloused hands that grip the controls of the Red Musket.

His nickname, "Tiger," is no mere moniker. It reflects the ferocity with which he fights, the cunning he employs to outmaneuver his enemies, and the unwavering loyalty he inspires in his crew. When Tiger roars an order, it cracks like a whip across the battlefield, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. And yet, beneath the outward gruffness, there resides a flicker of compassion, a deep-seated sense of responsibility for the lives entrusted to him. He is a leader who leads from the front, a shield against the storm, a man who would gladly give his own life for those he swore to protect.

"Eyes peeled, boys," Tiger's voice crackled over the radio, gruff yet laced with the thrill of unleashing these beasts. "We don't have the infantry accompanying us today so just keep vigilant. These beauties were bought with sweat and steel, not to be scrap in some alley. Four months of blood and mud to earn them, don't waste it!"

"Roger that." Radio back by following tanks.

Forward beneath Captain Gritz, Sergeant Reznov, also known as "Archer," the marksman of Red Musket pushed his glasses up his nose like your typical genius. His young face, usually lit by mischievous grin, was now a mask of steely focus as he peered through the advanced thermal scope."Yeah, this shit is old but it's just too good and expensive to be destroyed." Archer's proficiency as a gunner is legendary. He possessed an innate ability to transform a tank into a precision weapon, capable of striking targets from extraordinary distances with pinpoint accuracy. Even without the aid of thermal imagery or computer assistance, Archer's shots were remarkably precise. Archer also scans the surroundings using his newly highly advanced thermal viewer scope. "But man, this bad boy is a big deal? Compared to our last T72 and T90, this thing is just monstrous in size but…" He moved his body to sense any remaining space for him. "Urgghh…we're like sardines in here!"

A man with a deep voice chuckled "Haha, Hell, am still surprised that I actually fit in." That is Private Arlando "Armstrong" Sherman , the gun loader. He was located at the left side of Archer and the main gun between them. He is a man that you may mistake as a typical thug, because of his heavily muscular physique that is covered with a variety of tattoos. He was once a thug or gangster but when the war broke out, he changed himself for the better and became a soft, kind-hearted man. He has tanned skin and bald hair. Sporting a sleeveless tanker uniform to make room for his huge arms.. With that body of his, he's truly fitting as a gun loader. M1 Abrams are manual loading machines and he is the new member of the Red Musket since their former tanks are automatic loading and require 3 crew only.

The lead tank, Red Musket, abruptly halted amidst their advance. Captain Tiger grabbed his radio, issuing a crisp command, "All tanks, halt." The following tanks responded instantly, grinding to a standstill.

Through the intercom, Tiger addressed his driver, "Do you also sense that, Scarface?" Tiger suspected Scarface had already picked up on the anomaly, prompting him to stop the tank even before the order was given.

"Yeah..." came the reply from Scarface, the M1 Abrams driver. Scarface, whose real name is Ivan, shared Tiger's uncanny sixth sense. He was called "Scarface" because of his noticeable scar on the face that runs through his eyes to cheeks. Fortunately, his right eye where his scar is still functional.

"All right, you know the plan," Tiger stated.

"Roger that," Scarface acknowledged.

Tiger turned his attention to Archer, the tank's gunner. "Archer, you got visuals on 'em?"

"They're on my sight now," Archer confirmed. "Those runts think they can ambush us on those buildings."

"Well, let's give 'em hell!" Armstrong declared.

Cpt Tiger radioed other tanks, "To all tanks, proceed to location foxtrot, our man urgently needs your help, take the street echo instead and rush forward. Enemy already set up ambushes for us in street whiskey. Still proceed with caution they might set up ambushes in other areas. Report any sightings of enemy armor, and engage if necessary, but our priority is to save our pinned down soldier." 

"Tell that to you, Red Musket." Other tank commander jokingly said. "We'll be just fine, Hornet." Cpt Tiger reassured. 

"If you say so, Red Musket, we'll be on our way now, take care. Hornet over and out." The 3 other tanks headed to the location foxtrot which is in the east of the city.

Through his thermal monitor, Tiger vividly sees figures of humans highlighted with light green color indicating their thermals, and he observes that they are restless and seemingly preparing to attack. They were hiding on a second floor of an apartment then he saw one of the enemy grab something from the ground and put it to his shoulder and carry it, without a doubt, it must be some kind of anti-tank rocket or missile. 

"Load HEAT and fire on my command." Tiger's firmed command

Ammunition rack blast door slid open by Armstrong and he grabbed a round of M830A1 High Explosive Anti Tank. M830A1 is a behemoth of a bullet, standing about as tall as a small child at 3.6 feet (1.1 meters) long. Imagine a thick soda can, 4.7 inches (120 millimeters) wide, stretched to that height. Its olive green body packs a powerful high-explosive punch, designed to crack open heavily armored tanks. The round weighs 25kg but it's only a feather for Armstrong. He loaded the gun and shouted, "Up" to indicate the gun readiness to unleash its rage of explosion. 

"Scarface, 1/3 ahead," Tiger commanded, his voice a steady presence amidst the tension.

"Roger," Ivan responded, his grip tightening on the throttle, a twist of his wrist sending a surge of power through the M1 Abrams' formidable engine. The tank lurched forward, its treads grinding against the rubble-strewn city square.

Through the viewports, Ivan surveyed the battlefield, his eyes scanning the fog-shrouded landscape for any sign of movement. The enemy lay hidden, their presence a palpable weight in the eerie silence that hung over the square. Yet, Ivan remained unfazed, his senses honed from years of hunting in the dense forests of his homeland.

Inside the tank, the crew braced themselves for the impending clash. Tiger manned the 50.cal M2 Browning machine gun. Archer, the gunner, his fingers poised over the fire control, waited for the signal to unleash the tank's devastating arsenal. Armstrong, the loader, stood ready, his muscles primed for the rapid reloading of high-explosive rounds.

As the Red Musket inched closer to the enemy's concealed positions, the tension reached a fever pitch. The silence was a suffocating blanket, punctuated only by the rumbling of the tank's engine and the crew's measured breaths. Tiger took a deep, steadying inhale, his eyes narrowed, his senses heightened.

Finally, Cpt Tiger shouts "Fire!"

"On the way!"

The command unleashed a thunderous roar as the Red Musket's 120mm smoothbore cannon unleashed its devastating firepower. A high-explosive round hurtled through the air, slamming into the enemy's makeshift fortification with a deafening blast. Inside the tank, gun recoil pushes back really hard that it can fatally injure a crew if it's on line of its recoil. 

The impact was instantaneous, a violent eruption of shrapnel and debris that sent mangled bodies flying through the crimson-stained air. Tiger emerged from the tank's turret, his 50 cal machine gun spitting a relentless barrage into the chaos below. "Squirt at them, Archer!"

"Yes, sir!!" Archer joined Tiger by firing the 7.62 coaxial machine gun. a

Suddenly, the tank lurched backward, its treads churning the ground as it narrowly avoided an incoming RPG. A trail of smoke marked the path of the projectile, revealing the enemy's position. "Canister round on the same target!!" Tiger shouted. Archer's eyes glued to the thermal imaging display, the enemy's heat signature glowing bright against the cool backdrop. "Target Identified!"

Since the enemy's cover had been obliterated by the HEAT round, Tiger decided to use the Canister round or the M1028. Just imagine a shotgun shell but for the tank. That round contains thousands of tungsten balls and spreads them into a fan-shaped area. It's highly effective against infantry. 

"Canister Up!" — Armstrong

"Fire!" — Tiger

"On the way!" Archer shouts, 120mm gun roars again and hits the target building. Screams of agony from the enemy soldiers can be heard as they are obliterated by the spread of balls. Tiger continued suppressing the enemy fire but the enemy is still far from defeated.

Enemy unleashes a hail of gunfire upon the Red Musket, bullets ricocheting off its armored hull. Tiger, recognizing the imminent danger, quickly retreated into the tank's interior, his voice barking orders through the intercom. "Let's get the hell out of here before they overrun us!"

Red musket surged forward with relentless momentum. Inside the driver's hatch, Ivan, the tank's heart and soul, was a symphony of controlled movement, maneuvering the massive machine. As enemy fire rained down upon them, Ivan's senses extended beyond the confines of his position. It was as if he and the Red Musket had merged into a single entity, a fusion of man and machine that granted him an instinctive awareness of his surroundings. With an almost preternatural ability, Ivan could anticipate the trajectory of incoming projectiles, his hands guiding the tank in a ballet of evasion.

"Hey, Scarface, take it easy, man," Archer quipped, his voice laced with playful humor. "Don't want us to have another broken track, do we?"

Armstrong, ever eager for action, chimed in, "If that happens, we'll just have to fight them head-on! It's been four months since I joined the tankers, and my fists are itching for some real action. I wanna beat punks harder than our 120mm!"

Their commander, Tiger, joined the banter, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm, "That's right, son, I bet you'd love to try that in front of a T90."

Laughter rippled through the crew, a warm and comforting sound amidst the din of battle. Ivan, though separated from his comrades by the tank's layout, felt the joy radiating from their voices. A smile tugged at his lips as he expertly maneuvered the tank, their shared laughter echoing in his heart.

For Ivan, this camaraderie was more than just a distraction from the perils of war, it is a new hope, a reason to move forward. After losing his family at the early stages of war, his loved ones, the peaceful farm life he had, was just burned down by the unstoppable marches of war.

"Continue to location: foxtrot. We don't wanna miss any battle." With that, Cpt Tiger grabbed the radio. "This is the Red Musket, what's your situation there? Over." 

"This is Warpig! We're only a kilometer from Foxtrot, but we're taking heavy enemy fire!" The voice, laced with adrenaline, painted a vivid picture of the intense battle raging ahead. "They're flanking us and our boys at Foxtrot! We need immediate assistance!"

"How many enemies are you facing right now? Cpt Ask. 

"IT'S AN ARMORED DIVISION!" — Warpig

The crew of Red Musket gazed at each other. "4 to 100" Cpt Tiger Pondered "Bonus round isn't it?" Archer said, "What do you think, Armstrong?" Cpt Tiger asked him. Armstrong punched his fist. "I don't know how dangerous it'd be, let's just punch through their armor!" Then the rest of the crew waits for the response of Scarface.

Ivan, inside the driver compartment, closed his eyes and he felt the crew, "You probably want to use your seatbelt now." 

With that, the crew resolved their resolution, "That's what I want to hear!" Then the commander used the radio again, "Tell me their location."