The T-95 rumbled down the desolate road, its engine roaring like a caged beast that threatened to break free at any moment. Inside the cramped driver's compartment, Juri Stalin's hands gripped the controls with the intensity of a man focused on far more than the road ahead. The faint glow of the fuel gauge was his constant companion, mocking him with its precarious position just above empty.
"We're not going to make it," Viktor muttered from his seat, leaning against the turret's interior. His voice was tight, his usual sarcasm replaced by unease. "We've been running on fumes since we left the base."
"I know," Juri said curtly, his jaw tight. He wasn't about to admit it out loud, but Viktor was right. The T-95's powerful engine guzzled fuel at an alarming rate, and the pitiful reserves they'd started with weren't enough to get them to the frontlines.
As the tank roared down the empty highway, a dim light appeared on the horizon. Juri squinted, leaning forward to get a better look. The shape of a gas station emerged from the darkness—a squat, unremarkable structure flanked by two old pumps. It looked like it had been abandoned for years, but Juri wasn't in a position to be picky.
"There," he said, pointing.
Viktor followed his gaze and frowned. "That place? Are you serious?"
"Do you see any other options?" Juri snapped, steering the tank off the main road and toward the station.
The T-95 rolled to a stop in front of the pumps, its massive frame dwarfing the small building. Juri killed the engine, and the sudden silence was almost deafening. The air felt colder now, the night pressing in around them.
Juri climbed out of the driver's hatch, landing on the frozen ground with a grunt. The smell of old fuel and rust hung heavy in the air as he approached the pumps. Viktor followed, his boots crunching against the gravel.
"This isn't exactly a military-grade supply depot," Viktor said, his breath visible in the cold.
"Fuel is fuel," Juri replied, inspecting the pump. He yanked the nozzle free and carried it over to the tank, connecting it to the fuel port. The old pump creaked as he cranked the handle, and a sluggish stream of gasoline began flowing into the tank.
Viktor crossed his arms, watching skeptically. "You know this stuff isn't going to work, right? The engine's designed for high-octane fuel. This crap is probably half water."
Juri shot him a glare. "It'll work well enough to get us to the front. And if it doesn't, we'll deal with it then."
The tank groaned faintly as the fuel trickled in, its massive appetite barely sated by the meager offering. Juri worked the pump tirelessly, his hands stiff from the cold.
After what felt like an eternity, he disconnected the nozzle and replaced the cap on the fuel port. "That's all we're getting," he said, his tone grim.
Viktor climbed back into the turret, muttering under his breath about how insane this plan was. Juri followed, settling into the driver's seat and restarting the engine.
The T-95 roared to life once more, but the sound wasn't quite the same. The deep, confident growl of the engine had been replaced by a slightly uneven rumble, a reminder of the substandard fuel coursing through its system. Juri clenched his jaw and pushed the thought aside.
"It'll hold," he muttered to himself, as much to convince himself as to reassure Viktor.
Without another word, the tank rolled back onto the road, its treads grinding against the icy pavement.
Hours passed as they drove through the darkness, the road stretching endlessly before them. The cold seeped into the tank's interior, and the faint smell of gasoline hung in the air. Juri kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, his mind racing with calculations and plans. The fuel wouldn't last forever, and neither would their time.
It was nearly midnight when they finally reached the outskirts of the frontlines. The faint glow of campfires flickered in the distance, marking the location of the defensive positions. The T-95 rumbled into the encampment, drawing the attention of every soldier within earshot.
The reaction was immediate. Men turned to stare, their conversations halting as the tank rolled into view. Its size and crude, patchwork armor made it an intimidating sight, and the uneven rumble of its engine only added to its aura of raw power.
"Who the hell are they?" someone muttered as Juri brought the tank to a stop.
"Is that… a tank?" another voice asked, disbelief evident.
Juri climbed out of the driver's hatch, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. Viktor followed, stretching his arms and wincing at the cold.
Before either of them could say a word, a tall man in a thick coat approached. His uniform was adorned with the insignia of a general, and his stern expression made it clear he wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.
"You must be Stalin," the general said, his voice sharp. "Makarov told me you'd be coming. I didn't expect…" He gestured vaguely at the tank. "…that."
"It's a prototype," Juri said simply.
The general raised an eyebrow. "I'll say. What's your fuel situation?"
"Enough to move," Juri replied. He didn't bother mentioning the low-quality gas they'd used. There wasn't time for a debate about logistics.
The general nodded, motioning for them to follow him. "Come with me. We need to talk."
Juri and Viktor exchanged a glance before falling into step behind the general. He led them through the camp, past rows of tents and artillery positions. Soldiers moved hurriedly, their faces grim as they prepared for the battle to come.
They reached a small command post, where a map of the area had been spread across a table. Several officers stood around it, their expressions tense.
The general gestured to the map. "The Germans are advancing from the west. Their forces are moving faster than expected, likely due to their reliance on outdated but lightweight equipment. We estimate they'll hit us just before sunrise."
"How long do we have?" Juri asked, stepping closer to the table.
"Six hours," the general replied, his tone grim. "Maybe less. We've fortified what we can, but it won't be enough. That's where your… contraption comes in."
Juri studied the map, his eyes scanning the defensive lines and the likely points of attack. The T-95 wasn't ready for this—its armor was incomplete, and its ammunition supply was woefully inadequate. But he didn't have a choice.
"Where do you want us?" he asked.
The general pointed to a narrow pass near the center of the line. "Here. If the Germans break through, they'll have a direct route to our supply lines. We can't let that happen."
Juri nodded. "We'll hold it."
The general studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You'd better. If you fail, this entire operation collapses."
"We won't fail," Juri said, his voice steady.
The general didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. Instead, he motioned for one of the officers to fetch a supply of rations and water. "Get some rest if you can," he said. "You'll need it."
Juri glanced at Viktor, who looked like he was about to protest. But instead, Viktor sighed and nodded.
"Six hours," Juri said quietly as they left the command post. "That's not much time."
"It's more than we had before," Viktor replied. "We'll make it work."
Juri didn't respond. He climbed back into the tank, the cold metal seat pressing against his back. As he stared out at the dark horizon, his mind churned with possibilities. The T-95 wasn't ready, but it was all they had.
And when the sun rose, the Germans would come.