BigDog944

No lookup tables - trajectories are tracked post-penetration.
 
 
Yep.
 
 
Yep.
 
 
 
It is not beyond the game.  That's (basically) how it works.  All rounds are tracked, equipment is modeled, if people or equipment are hit by deflected / post-penetration rounds they'll get hurt just as much as they'd get hurt by a round of X size going Y speed.  This is how you can have through-and-throughs, men getting killed by deflected shells, etc.  Ballistics are tracked for all rounds, from start to finish.

I was living in that pre-civil-rights world, so perhaps that is the difference between us. What is history for you is memories for me. My standards thus are based on a different perspective than yours in all likelihood.

“Vovk, Brytva 22 at checkpoint 2.  No sign of enemy.  We see nothing at the farm.  We are continuing.”
Serzhant Klim Levitsky, commander of Tunguska Razor 22 was so scared he could barely hold still.  Yet his fear gave him focus, and his crew simply thought he was extraordinarily attentive to his duty.  As air defense soldiers, their training and education was a notch above the infantry and other combat soldiers.  Klim had two years at University!  But ever since the Russian invasion, their world had narrowed to the grease, wiring and electrical tape necessary to keep their complex vehicle rolling and operating.  Though the electrical components were sealed, Levitsky had taught them together how to troubleshoot basic faults using a wiring diagram and a breakout box.  Their Battery mechanic had helped, although the radar tech had cautioned them to leave the fire control system alone.  He also led them through training drills, using their system to track birds visually, and to run the appropriate tests and checks on the missiles, fuze setters, lead computing sight, slew and elevation mechanisms and the cannon feed systems.  A nightmare of complexity when compared with a simple main battle tank, yet Serzhant Levitsky loved it, and was grateful for the opportunity to systematically engage any aircraft that came within his weapon’s range.
 
Unfortunately, Levitsky was not quite emotionally prepared for the chaos of combat.  While his technical and tactical skills were first rate, adapting oneself to the understanding that nothing was ever going to go according to plan was difficult for the orderly young college student.  Assigned to the Krichek air defense sector, he had absorbed the air defense plan, airspace control measures, IFF settings and learned to follow the rules of engagement to prevent them from engaging a NATO aircraft (and potentially losing NATO Air Support!).  But as the situation in Krichek became more desperate, he started getting anxious.  While his less organized peers adapted grimly to the new tasks of building a ground defense, Klim stuck doggedly to his air defense doctrine.  Not until KPT Kovtun himself had carefully walked him through the rehearsal for his role, had he allowed himself to accept that he might actually execute this plan.  Now he was rolling forward, unsupported to check out a Russian recon truck that had been spotted earlier by LT Lysenko, and his mind was reeling.  The artillery of the last half hour had rattled him badly, and his linkage to the command and control nets only fueled his fears as station after station stopped reporting, some with audible finality.  He fully expected to see the deadly snout of a Russian T-90 leveled at him with every new meter of ground he could see.  Only the familiar acid-tang smell electronics mixed with grease had kept him stable.  Outwardly though, he remained not only in control but rigidly focused, rattling off precise clipped commands and scanning literally non-stop.
“Gunner, ground burst, four-zero rounds, at the left side of the building,” he spoke into his intercom headset.
“Identified, armed,” said the gunner, followed an instant later by the radar operator:
“Safety off!”
“Fire.” 
“Firing!” 
The buzz saw whined, the twin cannons firing at a combined rate of well over 4000 round per minute, spitting a greater weight of explosive at the building than a tank round.  The building shuddered under the impact. 
“Repeat engagement, fire.” Another burst spat out, followed by another.  On the third, the building collapsed in a heap. 
“Confirm no truck,” the Serzhant said.
“Nothing,” the gunner responded.
“We have alerted the enemy – wide area scan,” Levitsky said.  As he spoke, a loud detonation sounded just outside the track to the left.  Peering through his cupola window, he calmly said:
“Correction, scan left.  Infantry 100 meters.” The turret slewed instantly to the ten o’clock position.
“I see them!”
“Gunner, ground burst, four-zero rounds, Infantry, fire!”  Klim’s voice finally rose as he gave the command to kill another human being, but his whirling mind that wanted to blubber uncontrollably was locked into near-robotic adherence to his repetitive training.  The Russian scout, inexplicably trying to run after his near miss with the RPG, suddenly reversed course when the twin lines of destruction blasted parallel paths to his front and rear. 
“Miss, reengage, fire and track.”
“Firing!”
This time the rounds physically struck the sprinting Russian, blowing his torso nearly in half and tossing pieces of him into the nearby trees.  Klim’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head in shock, but his voice remained ice cold and smooth.
“Return to wide area scan.”
“Look, another one!” the gunner sang out.  Again Klim responded automatically,
“Gunner, ground burst, five-zero rounds, Infantry, fire.” 
This time the burst caught the second Russian the first time, fragments tossing him to the ground like a shotgun blast to a running hare.  His blood painted the grass, and Klim could see his eyes go glassy through his magnified sight. 
“Continue to scan.  Radar Operator, check feed chute linkages and compensator fluids.” 
Klim told himself that he could handle this.  He would get used to it and it would somehow become okay.  He thought about the fact that he had just blotted two or more men from the planet, but then immediately refocused on how to keep his track alive.  He knew his designated route for this patrol, but also knew that he was unlikely to have killed all the scouts that threatened his fragile track.  Gears in his mind whirred and clicked into a new pattern, and he spoke again.
“Hey, uh, driver.  When we move out, we’ll pull back around behind these trees, not out in front of them.  And I want you to focus on keeping the ride nice and smooth so Mykola can scan, okay?  That was really well done.  We are in it deep, but we will get through it together. Remember our training, but think hard about what we must do.”  He wiped sweat from his brow and rubbed his gloved hands on his thighs. 
“Here, guns, have some water.  Everyone take a drink, but save the vodka for later.  We need to stay sharp.” 
“Vovk, this is Brytva 22.  Engaged and killed two enemy scouts.  Cannot identify truck.  Continuing patrol.” 
 
http://youtu.be/DiLjwZjG7k8
 
Brytva 22 is actually Robocop
 
In Starov village, LT Martynyuk was angry.  He knew what was happening – his experience back in 2014 left him in no doubt that the wheels had come off the car, and his mortar platoon was in trouble.  He strode towards one gun team to get confirmation on their round count – he knew he could call, but felt the urge to see his men up close.  As he approached the section truck, he felt a shock through the ground that merged with a concussive ‘Boom!’ from just beyond the village.  He looked, and saw another column of smoke marking the end of yet another Ukrainian BMP.  He looked over at the gun crew, then up at the cab of the truck.  The driver was smoking a cigarette. 
“Soldat.  You have an RPG, yes?”
Like a child caught with a sweet, the young man froze his mouth agape, staring at the officer as though the words were in a foreign language.
“Well, do you?”
“Yes, Leytenant!”
“Get it, get all your ammo, and go over to that building there.  Tell the Serzhant of 1st Platoon that you are there to help.  If any Russian tanks come through, I am counting on you to stop them.  You understand?  You must cover us – we cannot fight tanks with mortars”
Breathing hard, the pimple-faced soldier jumped down from the cab.
“Yessir.  I…   I will.  I understand.”  He fumbled with his ammo satchel with the rockets sticking out, but got it slung and jogged off without another word.
Martynyuk watched him go, wondering if he would ever see him again.  He needed to ask him his name.
 

On the north side of the hill, the remnants of 3rd Platoon were still being ground down by the advancing Russian BMP-3s and infantry.  The Platoon leader came staggering back through the forest and collapsed by a tree, falling next to the last two surviving dismounted infantrymen from his small command, both bleeding from multiple shrapnel wounds to their faces and upper torsos. 
“Sir, are you okay?”  one asked.  The Lieutenant’s haggard face told the story as he just stared at the man in obvious shock.  In that instant, another burst of lethal 30mm cannon fire struck, directed by the thermal sights on an unseen enemy vehicle, and the officer fell forward on his face and was still.  The two infantrymen cried out in panic, then both began crawling away from the source of the fire, one whimpering in fear and the other snarling in impotent rage.
 

 
Note:  BMP in background is destroyed Ukrainian 3d Platoon vehicle.  
 
 
In Krichek, KPT Kovtun knew that the Russians were up to something.  The artillery  continued to hammer down, but there was simply not enough fire or probing coming from the far side of the river, especially given the destruction of one of an enemy BMP over there by his ATGM team several minutes ago.  Someone or something should have been hunting, searching, trying to pin down the missile team or flush out its comrades.  He called the BMP2 section which had moved up and taken position along the row of houses on the west, facing the river. 
“Borsuk 11, have you seen anything?  Any activity from the far side?”
“Nothing Viktor, hang on, I’ll move up and take a quick look.”
“Borsuk 11, this is Vovk, Hang on 11, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Trust me Viktor – we are good on this.”
An instant later a Kovtun heard the unmistakable hammering of outgoing 30mm fire, over the shriek of another incoming artillery shell.  As his ears were still ringing from the tremendous detonation, he gradually heard the voice calling again on his radio.
“Vovk, this is Borsuk 21…  Vovk this is Borsuk 21…”  with a heavy heart, already knowing Kovtun took a deep breath and replied.
“Go ahead 21.” 
“11 is destroyed.  We never saw what did it.  His track is burning.  No one got out.” 
“21 this is Vovk, do me a favor and don’t DIE in the next five minutes.  Keep scanning but keep YOUR heads down.  We need your track, your cannon, and your missiles!  Stay under cover and respect the enemy’s abilities.  Vovk out.”  He passed the handset back to his RTO, making a deliberate effort not to throw it against the wall, and carefully peeling his white-clenched fingers from the black plastic.  An instant later, he took it back and spoke again.
“Brytva 22, this is Vovk.  Move to checkpoint 2 and observe.”
“This is Brytva 22, understood.  Moving.  I have permission to shoot?”
Podpulkovnyk Tymoshenko stepped into the room.
“You are committing the Tunguska?”
“Brytva 22, destroy anything you see.  Out”  Kovtun gave his Air Defense Commander a hard look. 
“Yes Sir.  It is needed.  We have lost too many combat vehicles, and now 11 has stupidly gotten himself and his crew obliterated.  I need a check on the south, and it must be fast, and lethal if anything is there.  Brytva 21 on the other side has done quite well, although he said he saw nothing from his new position.”
“Absolutely.  Good, I approve.  I trust you Viktor.  Keep the fight going.  Levchenko will get here with the Americans.” 
 
http://youtu.be/cKvN6JINyaw
 
Outside, Major Harris drew the same conclusion from both the sounds of cooking off ammo from the recently destroyed BMP up the street, as well as the radio traffic which he and Beach were monitoring.  He too drew out his handset:
“Guiness, this is five, over.”  As a small team, the SFAT had adopted informal call signs.  SPC O’Brian was well known for his heritage, and his favorite beverage.
“Five this is Guiness.”
“Need you to get over to TRP 2 like we discussed.  Seen anything? Figure you can make it?”
“Roger.  We can make it.  The green boyos over here saw a couple dismounts earlier, but they laid into them with their AGS and we haven’t seen any movement since.  I think our move is still masked.  Same mission?”
“Roger, just like we rehearsed, over.”
“Guiness moving.  We’ll be back in a bit with notches on our CLU.  Out.”
One hundred meters away, the SPC O’Brian picked up the Javelin launcher, tapped PVT Metcalf on the shoulder, and headed quickly down towards the river bridge, carefully skirting the anti-tank mines laid on either side of the road.
 

 
At the Ukepor Power Plant, LT Lysenko grinned as he spoke into his mike. 
“Yes, that is in there.  Fire for effect.”
The infantry in the field had dropped from view, discouraged by a few bursts from his squad in the entry building, and the mortar spotting rounds had bracketed the position where he had last seen the Russian truck and troops.  He hoped the mortar boys would fire fast so he could shift them closer into the field.  He doubted his few men could hold off a platoon of determined Russians. 
 
Starshiy Kostenko knew he was a dead man.  The 2nd Platoon private was on the ground, crawling past the body of one of his comrades, trying to follow his section leader back down the hill to the west, away from the murderous fire from inside the trees.  It was like a horrible story to tell little children.  From dark shadows beyond sight inside the trees, the forest had suddenly belched fire and flame, and all around him men had fallen.  His own thighs and cheek burned with shrapnel, and he felt the warm sticky wetness of his own blood on his pant legs as he crawled.  Suddenly, right behind him, he heard a crashing roaring clatter of sound.  He turned his head and saw the Russian beast, a BMP-3, a mere stones throw behind him.  He swung his rocket launcher around, and thought to himself how sad his mother would be…