Antwerp, European Federation, December 2035

  "I was qualified to work on Unimogs and Dingos, but when it came to Leopard 1 tanks, my mind was a complete blank." He says with a cigarette between his lips

  There’s something odd about "Mika" Michel DeDecker. He’s my age but shorter than average, and his party clothes resemble those worn by clubgoers a decade younger than us. We stand together, watching the Port of Antwerp from a distance. The thumping rave music, deafening inside, is barely a murmur beyond these walls.

  One day, I was just thrown into a truck and driven to a part of the barracks in Leopoldsburg I’d never seen before. Waiting outside were four men—pushing fifty, fat, white-haired or bald. Real army pensioners. They shook hands with my sergeant, who gave them the rundown on me—my qualifications, whatever he thought was relevant—before hopping back on the truck and speeding off. I barely had time to say hello before they swung open the hangar doors.

  At first, I thought there were fifty of them. Then, as we went through the inventory, the number 78 flashed in my mind—not because I’d assumed most had been sold to Brazil or the rest handed off to Ukraine. No, what truly shocked me was realizing that it was just me and these retired soldiers tasked with bringing them back into service.

  We had a quota of five a week. Insane, I know. Those cats had been catching rust for god knows how long.

  We started with the basics—visual inspections, structural integrity, rust. All the fun stuff. Then came the real challenge: checking the seals. They shipped as much sarin gas to the front as they did water, so we had to make damn sure the guys inside these tanks would be safe if the air force or artillery decided to spray something that could shut down their nervous system in five minutes. In my opinion, that was the most tedious part—examining every seal for wear, cracks, or dry rot. Not just because it was mind-numbing work, but because we knew there was absolutely no room for error.

  Being the new guy—shorter, lighter, more flexible, and, let’s be honest, better looking than my old-timer colleagues—I got stuck with cleaning duty. The tanks were so moldy I had to wear my gas mask just to work inside them.

  Scrubbing, scrubbing—apply cleaning products, flush out the water. If I forgot to wear gloves, my hands would turn white and go numb from the chemicals. Then I'd let everything dry. By the time I was done, the interiors looked brand new.

  "Who were those old-timers?" I asked.

  "Guys who served in those tanks or maintained them during their military service in the '80s and '90s," he said. "A lot of them never left Belgium when they got their recall letter, or they actually came back from Spain or wherever they’d retired. An ex of mine—she was a sergeant, worked in admin—spent two months going through army archives, digitizing everything, tracking down who did what. Then the government cold-called them, asking if they’d be willing to return and help out.

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  Surprisingly, many of them said yes. Whether it was the guys helping me refurbish the tanks or the instructors training new crews to operate them, allot came back.

  They handled the more technical aspects—testing pumps and valves to make sure everything functioned properly, replacing anything faulty. Sensors and gauges had to be checked too, verified for accuracy and recalibrated when needed. For tanks with electronic or automated features, they inspected the wiring, batteries, and controls, making sure every system was in working order.

  "What did you do if parts needed replacing? Did you order them?" I asked.

  "God, no. You couldn’t order a pizza back then—good luck finding parts for a gun stabilizer," he scoffed. "The Americans call it 'rat fucking,' I think. We’d take a Leopard that was too rusted out or had too many issues to be brought back to life, strip it for whatever we needed, and use those parts to fix the ones that still had a chance. We were lucky to be honest, about 20% of the leopards there were used for spare parts. Some other tank plants, the french AMX's, russian T72's had a 50% loss rate."

  "Then we took care of the refilling and conditioning," he continued.

  We’d start by refilling the tanks gradually, carefully monitoring for any leaks. If needed, we'd add stabilizers—sometimes fuel or water tanks required specific chemical additives. We also ran tests to check for contamination, looking for bacteria, rust, or any signs of water contamination that could compromise the system.

  Once that was done, we moved on to operational testing and certification. We’d conduct pressure or leak tests, depending on what was necessary. For mechanical systems like these tanks, we put them through functional trials—testing everything from mobility to weapons systems to make sure everything was good to go.

  "And that’s it," he said, with a nod. "We’d park them outside."

  At first, we were managing just two Leopards a week. The officer in charge wasn’t happy—not just with us, but with the whole logistical mess of body bags, MRE shipments, and everything else he had to oversee. But once my team and I got the system in order, bringing in more hands for the tedious tasks, we were cranking out 5 to 10 tanks a week. The parking lot outside quickly filled up.

  One day, a German and an American general happened to stop by. They were driving through the base when they saw me pull a tank out of the hangar. They actually stopped to watch us work, and I swear, they looked like kids in a toy shop before they came over to thank us.

  "You mean to tell me you guys are working with little to no resources and still managing to roll out 10 tanks a week, instead of just having the army buy new ones?" That’s what I’m sure they wanted to say out loud.

  The suits and generals couldn't even agree on which tank or armored vehicle should be produced, just like the endless debates over the service rifle. The discussions on whether to go with the M1A2 or K2 tanks were even more brutal. And here we were, making it work by rat fucking—cobbling things together with what we had. That's why we spray painted that logo of a skaven on the commander's hatch. It was like our signature. Old guys had no idea what a skaven was but when I explained it to them they loved it.

  Those Leopards did the job, sure, but they were death traps. Little armor compared to the modern tanks that had replaced them around the world. But with the crabs knocking on Belgium’s door, beggars couldn’t be choosers.