After a particular steep ground wave, the Marauder actually managed to loose contact with the reddish dust. Split-seconds of relative serenity, accentuated by the whispering of the wind and the engine revving high due the loss of resistance. The crash was spectacular. The nose hit first, the front wheel suspension rods were rammed all the way into their cylinders and the chassis fell just short of scraping over the wheels. The first jolt almost made Pjotr bite into the steering wheel and the subsequent ones rattled the car wildly, as the metallic projectile sped on wagging its tail happily, bulldozing the moisture-deprived vegetation into the ground. The corners of Pjotr's mouth were slightly lifted, almost,<em>almost</em>passing for a smile of joy.<br/><br/>They had been driving for about an hour or so, through the lively city of New Atlanta, onto the old route 400 heading north, through the lesser populated areas of the suburbs and small villages, until they had reached the barren hills, where they had left the tarmac and continued to drive cross-country.<br/><br/>Pott's Point began to grow out of the backdrop of the cloudless sky, the roofs poorly gleaming in the up high sun. Pjotr turned the wheel slightly to correct their course, now heading directly toward the command center and stepped down on the accelerator pedal till it wouldn't go any further. The Marauder mobilized its last reserves of power and slowly climbed to its top speed.<br/><br/>About a third of a mile before their destination, Pjotr let go of the accelerator pedal and stepped on the clutch. The behemoth didn't care much for it, at first. It still soldiered on smoothly, pulled along by its ten tons of steel. At four hundred yards, the needle of the speedometer began to fall. at three hundred yards it was at fifty three mph. At two hundred yards, at forty mph. Hundred and fifty yards short of their destination, at thirty two mph, Pjotr reengaged the clutch and flicked a switch to direct all of the power to the hind wheels. The needle pointed at 24 when there was only a distance of hundred yards left to cover. He quickly turned the steering wheel all the way to the right. The effect of this was that the Marauder, aided by the plane loose ground, began to turn gracefully, kicking up a enormous cloud of sand and dust, soon sliding along at an almost perpendicular angle to its direction of movement.<br/>Fifty yards separated the Marauder from its destination. Pjotr cranked the wheel all the way to the right and gently engaged the brakes, which let the truck's tail end flick around in an elegant arc to complete its turn. Pjotr softly played with the brake and the acclerator pedal till they came to a stop, his face content.<br/>*Thud!*<br/>"<em>Der'mo!</em>"<br/><br/>In the end, it wasn't his action that stopped the vehicle.<br/>Instead, the side of the metal monster had hit the wall of the command center. Not strong enough to cause any damage to it or - if that was even possible - to the Marauder, but Pjotr felt like he botched a graceful rendition of 'The Swan Lake' at its very end, even though he succeeded to park in such a way that the majority of the Marauder was shielded from the sun, while simultaneously allowing for the front doors to be opened. Grumbling, he hammered down on a button to open the hatch at the back grabbed the radio and addressed the team: "Dizmount."<br/><br/>Pjotr slipped out of the Marauder, lighting up a cigarette before his feet hit the ground.<br/><em>No time to begrudge a mistake in the midst of battle.</em><br/>He squinted against the bright sun while searching for McClearly's distinctive silhouette, quickly finding him a short distance away. Pjotr approached him and after greeting him said, while extending his arm toward the Marauder and the newly assembled team: "Fou<em>r</em>nu me<em>r</em>ks at you dispozal, zi<em>r</em>."