Garrett Chandler
The sound of incoming enemy artillery was a low rumble in the bunker Lieutenant Colonel Duke Rogers stood in, seventy feet below ground. The space, dimly lit by flickering artificial light, was part of a massive underground complex of tunnels, bunkers, and fighting positions that made up the eastern defensive lines in the Ural Mountains. He stood silently, listening to the whir and hum of the 3D printers all around the room. He was in the main logistics bunker of his brigade and around him machines were busy printing the commodities that would keep his force in the fight.
Against the wall to his left was the munitions printer, rapidly churning out small arms bullets from sheets of metal polymer. The new rounds were launched using electromagnetic force and didn’t need any propellant, allowing for full production at the front. On the other side were the medical and food production printers. The food printer combined nutrients together and produced cubes that functioned as meal replacements. To produce medicine, the machines combined the chemicals used to produce pharmaceuticals just like in the old days at factories.
It sounded funny to Rogers to think of the old days. They hadn’t produced things in true manufacturing lines since he was a teenager. Not since the Big War of the 2020s. He had been a private then, at least when it started. That was twenty years ago now. He wasn’t the same kid as he was back then. Back then he was reckless and carefree. He had been promoted quickly, after being in one of the few tanks to survive his first battle. His tank commander had died when an explosively formed penetration round cut through their tank. After that, he did what he had trained to do. He killed enemy tanks. He killed a lot of enemy tanks. He kept doing it too. The Army gave him a medal for it, a Distinguished Service Cross. They commissioned him too. And he chose to stay because of that.
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