Morning in the El ávila Valley.

  Fog still clung low between the hills as Mateo stepped out of the car. The air was cold, biting to the bone, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint smoke drifting from factory chimneys in the distance.

  Before him stood a five-meter-high iron gate. Guarded by fifteen men in black uniforms, rifles in hand. Not ordinary rifles—new models, domestically produced, still rough in some areas but already capable of killing.

  The guards checked his identity three times. Mateo didn't protest. This was his territory, his protocol, his rules. He had established them himself.

  Beyond the gate, a vast field stretched out. Dried grass had yellowed—once cornfields worked by farmers before the government "purchased" this land under the pretext of a "strategic project." Now only weeds and hard-packed earth remained, compacted by the wheels of heavy vehicles.

  Felix was already there, standing beside a large tent. Next to him stood Ortega in his rumpled white coat, eyes swollen, hair disheveled. The man hadn't slept in three days.

  Mateo approached without speaking. He simply gazed out across the field.

  In the center sat an object. Iron, massive, awkward. An elongated box with a short muzzle in front, two large wheels on the sides, and beneath it—steel tracks coiled like sleeping serpents.

  The first prototype tank.

  But not a tank like those he remembered from his past life. This was smaller, uglier, more... primitive. Rough weld lines, uneven armor plating, tracks sagging in places. The stench of diesel and oil assaulted the senses from three meters away.

  "Its name is the T-1," Ortega said, his voice hoarse. "T for turtle. Because it moves slowly."

  Mateo didn't laugh. He walked closer, circling the object. His hand touched the armor plate—cold, rough, with hammer marks scattered across its surface. In several spots, bolt holes didn't align properly. On one side, a weld had cracked—they'd patched it, but the scar remained visible.

  "This is the engine?" he asked, pointing to the rear section.

  Ortega nodded. "Truck engines. The largest we could obtain. Two of them, combined. Not ideal, but—" he shrugged. "—it moves."

  Felix added, "We tested it indoors yesterday. Ran a hundred meters, then the right engine died. Took two hours to fix."

  Mateo opened the side hatch—not really a door, but a narrow entry hole requiring crawling to get through. Inside, darkness, the smell of iron and oil. Three people could sit crammed together—one driving, one operating the cannon, one observing. No room for anything else.

  The cannon was short, small caliber. Ortega called it a "tank gun," but it was actually an infantry cannon forcibly mounted. The frontal armor—thick steel plates—could withstand ordinary rifle fire, but artillery? Forget it.

  Mateo emerged from the tank. His breathing was slightly heavy—not from exhaustion, but from... something. In his mind, images from a past life. Giant tanks, perfectly armored, massive cannons, decent speed. This wasn't that. This was a sick iron turtle.

  But it was theirs. Built by them. And it could be developed.

  "The trial," he said. "Begin."

  Ortega signaled. Two mechanics ran to the tank, checking the engine, filling it with diesel from a drum. The diesel stench grew stronger. One of them—a young man, maybe twenty years old—opened the hood, turned something. The engine growled, coughed, then died. He turned again. A growl, a cough, then—a rough roar that persisted.

  The tank moved.

  Slowly. Very slowly. The steel tracks turned, crushing dry grass, leaving deep impressions in the soil. Every two meters, a loud screech—the tracks grinding against wheels, or perhaps loose bolts.

  Inside, the driver attempted to turn left. The tank responded... five seconds later. A wide, clumsy turn, nearly going off course.

  Felix sighed. "Yesterday was worse. Trying to turn right made it spin in circles."

  Mateo said nothing. His eyes followed the tank's sluggish movement. The engine roared, black smoke belching from the exhaust.

  Then—clank!

  The tank stopped. The engine died. Smoke poured out thicker.

  The mechanics ran over. Ortega clutched his head.

  "The right engine," he said. "I expected this."

  Mateo walked closer. The smell of diesel and burning rubber. One mechanic opened the hood—hot steam burst out, and he stumbled back cursing.

  "Blown," he said. "The gasket couldn't handle the heat."

  Ortega looked at Mateo. "Quality gaskets need to be imported from Brittonia. But Brittonia is at war—they're focused on blockades. This will be difficult."

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Mateo nodded. "Replace them with local ones, even if they wear out faster."

  "But—"

  "Replace them." His voice was flat. "We have no choice. I'll figure out how to improve the quality later."

  The next two hours were filled with emergency repairs. The mechanics worked under a makeshift tent, replacing gaskets, checking tracks, tightening loose bolts. Mateo sat on a folding chair, waiting.

  Felix sat beside him, offering a cigarette. Mateo declined.

  "Do you think this will be useful?" Felix asked.

  "Not yet. For now."

  "But you're spending a lot of money on this."

  Mateo gazed at the tank. In the rising sunlight, the iron looked even worse. Cracked welds, peeling paint, sagging tracks.

  "In Prussi, you saw trench warfare," he said. "Machine guns, barbed wire, artillery. What can break through that?"

  Felix was silent.

  "Horses die. Infantry die. But this—" Mateo pointed at the tank. "—might. Even if it's slow now. Ugly. Prone to breakdowns. But it can always be improved. And if ten vehicles like this breach the trenches, what can stop them?"

  Felix considered that. Then nodded slowly.

  "We need ten."

  "We need a hundred in the future, at least. But ten for now."

  The second trial.

  The tank moved again. Smoother this time—maybe because of the emergency repairs, maybe because the ground was drier. A hundred meters. Two hundred. Three hundred. It stopped at the far end of the field, then turned around—a slow, clumsy process, but successful.

  Back to the starting point. The engine roared, black smoke billowed, but it didn't die.

  Ortega smiled. A wide smile, like a child riding a bicycle for the first time.

  "Four hundred meters!" he exclaimed. "A new record!"

  Mateo almost smiled.

  "The cannon," he said. "Live-fire test."

  They set up a target at the far end of the field—thick plywood, old warehouse doors stacked three layers deep. The tank was aimed. The cannon was loaded—training rounds, no explosives, just iron projectiles.

  Boom!

  The sound was smaller than Mateo had expected. The projectile shot forward, striking the target—but not dead center. Slightly to the right. It tore through two layers of wood and stopped at the third.

  The mechanics cheered. Ortega jumped a little.

  Felix nodded. "Not bad."

  Mateo walked to the target, examining the impact hole. Not too deep. Not too large. But enough to wound. Enough to punch a hole in a wall. Enough to terrify the soldiers behind it.

  He returned to the tank. The mechanics were already inspecting the barrel—still cool, still safe. One of them, the young man from before, looked at Mateo with shining eyes.

  "Cool, right, Master? We built it ourselves!"

  Mateo regarded him. This kid probably knew nothing about war. About trenches. About death. He only saw iron that could move and shoot.

  "Yeah," Mateo said. "Cool."

  ***

  12:30. Lunch tent.

  Ortega ate ravenously—bread, smoked meat, cheese. The first real meal he'd had in three days. Mateo only drank black coffee, bitter, no sugar.

  "So," Ortega said between bites. "Do we start production?"

  Mateo nodded. "Ten units first. For further field trials while we refine them."

  "The cost—"

  "I know the cost. I've calculated it."

  Ortega nodded but hesitated. "The problem isn't just cost. Raw materials, skilled labor, time. We need at least six months for ten units."

  "Three months."

  "Three months? But—"

  "Three months. Find a way." Mateo set down his cup. "If necessary, run three shifts and pay them triple. But three months."

  Ortega swallowed hard. "Alright. Three months."

  Felix, sitting nearby, added, "And security? This factory is already too big to go unnoticed. If information leaks—"

  "Tighten security." Mateo looked at him. "Tighten security. All workers must sign nondisclosure agreements. Anyone suspicious—monitor them. If anyone tries to sell information—" he paused. "—you know what to do."

  Felix nodded. His task was clear.

  Outside the tent, the engine roared again. The mechanics were still tinkering with the tank, trying to fix what could be fixed, noting what couldn't.

  Mateo stood and walked outside. The sun was high, hot, but the cold wind still blew. In the field, the T-1 stood rigid, like a giant iron turtle exhausted from its efforts.

  He thought about what he'd just witnessed. Crude engine. Ugly welds. Sagging tracks. Weak cannon. But it was theirs. Built by them. And in a world where the ADF had massive weapons factories, where Prussi and Brittonia slaughtered each other with the latest technology, this was a beginning.

  No one starts perfect.

  He walked to the tank. Touched the cold armor plate. On one side, a deep scratch—from a previous test, perhaps, or a production error.

  "T-1," he murmured.

  Tortoise. Slow, but able to endure.

  Behind him, Felix approached. "Want to see the others? There's a new radio prototype. Lighter."

  Mateo nodded, turned, and left the tank in the field.

  One small step. But they were moving.

  ***

  Under another tent sat the portable radio. Smaller than before—five kilos. Still large, still heavy, but one person could carry it with difficulty. Test range: eight kilometers. Decent.

  "Model R-2," the explaining technician said. "We replaced components with lighter ones, made the antenna more efficient. But the battery only lasts four hours."

  "Improve it."

  "We're trying a new battery. But it takes time."

  "Accelerate it."

  Mateo held the radio. A boxy object with large knobs, dangling wires. Nothing like the radios of his past life. But this could send messages without wires. This could change how they fought.

  At another table, a light machine gun. A new model—shorter, lighter, using the same ammunition as standard rifles—simpler logistics. Test results: 400 rounds per minute, jammed after 200.

  "The feed mechanism needs work," the technician said. "But the concept works."

  Mateo nodded. "Limited production first. Fifty units. Field tests to evaluate."

  The technician smiled. A proud smile.

  Mateo circulated, examining everything. Radios, rifles, new ammunition, lighter grenades, even concepts for reconnaissance and bomber aircraft—still drawings on paper, not yet prototypes. Every table had its story, its problems, its progress.

  Evening was falling when he finished. An orange sun on the western horizon, long shadows stretching across the field. The T-1 still stood in its place, engine silent, motionless.

  Ortega approached. "Satisfied, sir?"

  Mateo looked at the tank, then at Ortega. This man, with his rumpled white coat, swollen eyes, disheveled hair—he and his team had worked like madmen for this.

  "Are you satisfied?" Mateo asked in return.

  Ortega exhaled. "No. But this is more than I imagined a year ago."

  Mateo nodded. "That's your answer."

  He walked to the car. Felix followed.

  Before getting in, Mateo glanced back once more. The field. The tank. The tents. The people still working. The smell of diesel, smoke, sweat. This wasn't victory. This was the first step.

  "Tighten security," he told Felix. "Starting tonight."

  Felix nodded. "Already ordered."

  The engine roared to life, leaving the field behind, leaving the T-1 standing rigid under the orange sky.

  Inside the car, Mateo was silent. His thoughts weren't on the tank, or the radio, or the rifles. They were on what would happen when these weapons were truly perfected and then used. On the faces that would die because of them.

  They were moving. Faster or slower.

  https://paypal.me/ArdanAuthor)