Javelin

Eighteen-degree elevation angle. Two-stage rocket. Fired from the shoulder. Autonomous targeting. Direct fire mode for bunkers and covered targets. Top-attack mode to smash through thin tank turrets. 

Alexander sat in a foxhole outside Lviv. The cold was a companion now. It settled inside his bones. It became intrinsically part of Alexander. To not be cold was unnatural now. Alexander believed it was his heritage that made the cold familiar and welcome. But sitting in the foxhole, scanning the horizon through the lens of the command launch unit on a Javelin, Alexander wondered if it was just the adrenaline and patriotism.

His country was flooded with weapons devised to stem the onslaught of soviet tanks in West Germany. Javelins had been produced by the thousands in the ‘90s. After sitting in crates cradled in soft black foam, the Javelins were seeing the light of day. By the second week of the invasion, Alexander heard there were 15,000 missile launchers delivered. Three of the missiles sat in a crate behind him. One was loaded into the launcher cradled on his shoulder.

Alexander didn’t have a confirmed kill with the Javelin. He didn’t want a confirmed kill. He’d rather maim a tank than incinerate the crew inside of it. He’d rather let his comrades take pot shots on fleeing Russians. Or see the tank crew surrender, white flag poking out of the hatch on the turret. The Javelin doesn’t maim, though. It seeks. It destroys. The computer in the missile doesn’t recognize humanity — why would it? It doesn’t allow for the complexities of emotion to interfere with taking the shot. It sees heat. White, bright, thermally loud heat. It locks onto the heat. All Alexander has to do is press a button. 

The missile path is predetermined. The rocket pops out of the launcher. It hangs in the air confused, seeing the light of day and filled with kinetic energy and trying to orient itself in this big world. The rocket is no more than 10-feet away from Alexander. Then the second stage kicks in. The rocket rediscovers its purpose. Seek. Destroy. Blinding light erupts from the tail of the rocket. Alexander’s eyes follow the white glow up into the sky. With just a glint in his eyes, the rocket arcs high. Alexander wonders if the rocket will keep climbing. If it has a mind of its own. If it's ready to leave the propellent-fueled madness and float among the satellites and stars peacefully for eternity, preserved in space dust and moonbeams. 

The rocket begins descending. Faster than it rose, it races towards its target. Alexander lost sight of the rocket at the top of the arc. He peers through the thermal lens to watch the tank. Blinding light. Annihilation. Warmth on the frozen plains some 500 yards away. Alexander sets the launcher beside him. The foxhole feels warm now. He watches the smokestack