((Testing.))

Your M1A2 Sep V3 Abrams whines gently under the cover of her foliage. Your gunner sits in front of you, peering through his sights. Heavy rain patters on the roof of your cupola, obscuring your vision blocks and forcing you to use your thermals. Your driver rests inside the hull, his hands on the motorcycle like controls of the iron beast. Your loader is reloading the ready rack, bending down to remove stored rounds and transfer them into the awaiting rack. The breech however remains unloaded, with no action expected. Unfortunately, a platoon of T-72s roll along in the distance, with your gunner missing their thermal signatures, the cold rain masking some of the engine heat. Your gunner skims over them once more.

— I don't see anything.