Armored Warrior Panzerter
Eve of Battle
T. E. Butcher
Copyright © 2021 by Tyler Butcher
All rights reserved. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive, dead, or dead inside are purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Terms to Know
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A Word From the Author
Terms to Know
Panzerter: Bipedal war machines developed for urban combat in the early twenty-first century. Their incredible versatility led to them eventually dethroning Main Battle Tanks as the armored vehicle of choice for many nations. Often paired with Infantry fighting vehicles and/ or dropships, they’ve become a decisive force in 29th Century combat.
Tubers: Artificial humans named after the birthing chamber they gestate in, The Union of Martian Republics mastered the science of creating them in response to a crisis early in their development. Forcibly sterilized and raised from birth to master a single profession, they make up 45% of the Union’s population.
The Union of Martian Republics/ The Union: Founded by five colonies who wanted to share a fair and just future, the Union stretches from the Boreal Ocean to the edge of the Tharcian subcontinent. As time went on, the Union’s government grew more corrupt and manipulative, eventually resorting to drastic measures to put down a series of protests. This led to a war with Tharsis where the other nation annexed the Gallacian Martian Republic (Now Gallacia) and the Erie Martian Republic became the Rosevelt Republic.
The Mobile Assault Guards/ MAG: Founded after the War of 2112, The MAG stand as the most elite arm of the Union army. Using the best equipment and trained as thoroughly as possible, they are one of the most formidable forces on Mars. Tubers who join the MAG are granted reproductive rights and voting rights after serving ten years.
Tharsis: Founded by refugees from Eastern and Central Europe in the aftermath of World War III, the Tharcians have taken eagerly to their new home on the Tharcian subcontinent. After suffering for seven years under the Nazis and then fifty under the Communists, they are a resilient if defensive people. After just over a century on Mars, The Republic of Tharsis has grown into one of the most prosperous nations in either the Earth or Mars sphere.
Vinland: A Mars country founded by Scandinavian colonists. Their homeland rests across the Mariner sea from Tharsis.
Olympia: An ally of Tharsis, they were mostly defeated in the opening months of the Red World War.
Avalon: an ally of the Union. An archaic society ruled by a king, they’re mostly a space-based nation. However, their capitol is on a small island west of Olympia.
1
He staggered through a snowbank. Bitter winds whipped at the young man’s face as he soldiered on. A machine gun chattered in the distance. In response, a Panzerter’s rifle roared. The trees that still stood lacked leaves. With the young man coming closer, Captain Paul Reiter noticed something on his back. Another soldier.
From the jagged green and gray lines over off-white, Reiter could tell the young man was a Tharcian, likely a pilot due to his lack of heavy clothing. As the snowstorm howled outside, Reiter pressed his own machine forward. His Lowe, perhaps the most advanced panzerter the Tharcians had produced, stomped through the frozen woods like a giant out of fairy tales.
“Fox 7, do you have ID?” he asked. His 1st Sergeant, Master Sergeant Adamski, followed in a Panzerter IV. The venerable machine had seen two refits since the start of the war, and at the moment could go toe-to-toe with any Union Machine.
“That’s Merlin Jr, and it looks like he’s carrying Zorro,” he replied. “Gold 3, get them inside, I’ll call up the MEDEVAC.” Reiter looked ahead. Panzerter rifles intermixed with auto-cannon and machine gun fire. Somewhere White Team is taking a beating.
“Stovepipe, on me,” Reiter said. “We’re going to relive White team and the scouts, Fox 5, fall back to Landfall, and prepare to receive more wounded.”
“Roger Fox 6,” Stovepipe replied. “I’ll be on your 5.” Despite the temptation to run, Reiter kept the Lowe at a brisk walk so he didn’t leave Stovepipe’s tracked Iglasio behind. “Are you going to commit Black Platoon?” Reiter shook his head despite the other man’s inability to see him.
“No, if we commit more forces to this skirmish, we risk escalating it, and that could turn into a battle,” he replied. “And we know what our orders are.”
“Yeah yeah, defend your positions, but don’t get decisively engaged,” Stovepipe growled. “Biggest crock of shit I ever heard. Some Uni fuckstick is sitting in my easy chair in your home, but don’t bother trying to go fight them.” Rieter sighed. Their regiment had been part of the Gallacian Provincial Watch before that province had been overrun by Union forces during their initial offensive. Now they’d been integrated into the regular army’s chain of command, but the long retreat to their current position still stung.
Switching to thermals didn’t do a lot of good in an active snowstorm, so Rieter was surprised when his passive thermals picked up a hit. Another Iglasio, a recon type, plowed through the snow towards them. The IFV’s tracks squeezed over the howl of the wind as it rushed past them.
“Nomad element. Fox 6, report,” Reiter snapped. The Iglasio ignored him and continued running away. Another Iglasio followed it, this one with a split turret.
“I don’t think the nomads are doing to well,” Stovepipe replied, but Reiter ignored him. Instead he broke into a run, crashing through trees as he went. Up ahead he could see the battle. A lone Panzerter IV just barely held off three tinhats. She was belching smoke and already down an arm. Wrecks littered the snow covered forest. Some Panzerter IVs, a pair of Iglasios, and a tinhat. Steele.
Reiter charged the nearest tinhat. In one hand he raised his shield, while the other took aim with his new rifle. With a high-pitched ping, a 90-mm heavy metal slug punched right into the Union machine. The ugly thing crashed to the ground.
Its companions opened fire. Reiter grunted as shells hammered his shield. Firing a second time, he smashed a shoulder off one. To his surprise, the first one began struggling to stand back up. I must have hit nothing vital.
“White 4, fall back,” Reiter barked. “You did your job, the recce platoon lives.”
“Can’t do 6,” She replied. “Nomad 3’s stuck.” Reiter put another round into the first tinhat. This time its hips shattered. Damn it, she’s right, we can’t leave them.
“Gold 2 can tow them,” he snapped. “You fall back, I’ll cover you.” The final intact tinhat backpedaled, unleashing a furious barrage as it did. Reiter returned fire. A hammering auto-cannon signaled Stovepipe catching up to him.
While the lighter weapon could do little against a panzerter’s thicker armor, it proved more than capable of smashing a tint’s sensor ring. Blind and dow
n an arm, the second tinhat lay still. By now the last one had given them the slip. Reiter looked at the tinhats he’d knocked out.
“Union pilots,” he called over the external speakers. “Surrender, you’ll be treated with all the respect according to the Geneva convention of 1995.” Sure enough, the pilots crawled out of their downed machines. “Stovepipe, you got room for two more?”
“We’ll have to have some of my guys ride in the scout track, but yeah we should,” the infantryman replied. “When do we get a fancy magnetic gun system?” Reiter chuckled. With Steele limping back to base, Stovepipe’s riflemen dismounted. After a few minutes of shouting and bribes, they had the scouts and POWs helping them hook tow cables and dig out the recon vehicle.
Rieter focused on the surroundings, ever wary of a follow-up attack. When none came, and the scout vehicle had been freed, he gave the order to mount up and move out. He let Stovepipe’s Iglasio precede him as they made their way back to base.
“Raptor X-Ray, Fox 6, our screen revived contact,” he said. “Inform Early company of the changeover.” He never wore gloves in the cockpit, as he’d always preferred the greater sensation of his bare hands. With the Lowe’s sensitive controls, it made sense, but the weather made his hands numb. That’s what I need to recommend next, heated controls. At least my bum warmer works.
“Hey 6,” Stovepipe called. “You’re not obligated too, but do you mind explaining why you came out here instead of sending Black Platoon?” Reiter grinned as he switched his mic back to the company net.
“A few mark IVs could be any Tharcian armored company,” he said. “But the Lowe? That’s us, and it freaks out their rookies.” Even though his machine traded the all black paint job that’d made it infamous among the union for added splotches of green, gray, and white, captured soldiers still identified it as “the Black Knight.”
After an hour slogging through snow and mud, they arrived at the town of Landfall. The municipality still had people living there somehow, despite about of the building being damaged or knocked down. Once he’d parked the Lowe in a kneeling pose in an empty lot with the rest of Fox company, he donned his gloves, killed the engine, and climbed out.
As the frigid wind met his face, he shuddered and pulled his jacket on. Gray clouds hung overhead, casting snow on the town. Landfall itself consisted of a couple blocks stretched along the main road, a provincial highway that led to the city of Grunbeck.
While dismounting his panzerter, Reiter noticed some of his soldiers hard at work with snow shovels and sandbags. This ought to be good.
“Hey gents, what’s going on here?” he asked. At the start of the war, he’d been Black Platoon’s leader, but the ferocity of the initial Union Offensive saw him take over the company during the desperate scramble to stem the tide. At Twenty Seven, he was not much older than most of his soldiers.
“A little something I cooked up,” Sergeant Mondragon said with a grin. “The laser weapons the Union tends to favor don’t mix well with water, you know, dispersing the beam in all.” He pointed at his platoon mates, Corporal Merlin the elder, and PFC Smith. The two held sandbags high so Rieter could see they’d been packed with snow.
“Union laser hits our handy snowbag,” Corporal Merlin began.
“And the snow turns to steam, scattering the beam,” Smith finished while demonstrating the scatter with his hands. Merlin glanced towards the area where white platoon’s machines normally parked.
“Hey, sir, is White still out?” he asked. Reiter hadn’t given Col. Hawke his After Action Review and Battle Damage Assessment yet, but he could see the other man’s concern for his brother.
“No, they’re back,” he replied. “None of their machines have been recovered, but Invincible is working on that.” He held up a hand before Merlin could get a word in. “Ernie is ok, we had to MEDEVAC him and Zorro, but she needed it way more than he did.”
“What happened?” Merlin asked. Reiter clapped him on the shoulder.
“You should be proud of him,” he said. “Unis shot them both down, Ernest was able to bailout, Zorro couldn’t. When we picked him up, he’d carried Zorro ten clicks in the snow.” Merlin sighed in relief.
“So he’s not too bad?”
“He’s being treated for early stages of hypothermia and frostbite,” Reiter replied. “But he’ll be biting at your heels before too long.” Mo grabbed the taller man’s shoulder.
“Hey man, if you need to take a walk, we got this,” he said. Merlin shook his head and retrieved his shovel.
“Thanks Mo, but nah,” he said as he returned to work. “If Ernie comes back and I’m slacking, that’s hardly the example a brother should set.” Rieter turned to leave, but stopped himself. One more thing.
“Before I leave, you stooges should be getting a new LT before long,” he said. The pilots of Black Platoon shrugged. Their last LT had been killed during a patrol along one of the highways north of Landfall. As his soldiers went about their work, Reiter made his way towards a mom and pop diner centered on main street. With the regimental command post in sight, he took a deep breath and entered the building.
The clink of Whisky glasses was a sound Declan Kennedy could get used to. The newly minted Guard-Lieutenant Colonel sipped his fiery drink in the company of his MAG benefactor: Guard-Brigadier Chaney. The two occupied a lunge suite in the underground city of Congregation, the capital of the Congaree Martian Republic. The older man pointed at the new medal adorning Kennedy’s dress uniform.
“That Order of the Martian People blends nicely with the rest of your collection,” he said. Kennedy shrugged.
“They really are collectibles at this point,” he admitted. “I mean, the first one was special, but this is past ridiculous.” Chaney nodded as he sipped his own whiskey.
“So humor me this,” he asked. “I have a theory, that a medal can only be earned once before it loses all value to a unit, for example, if someone else in the 100th received an OMP, it wouldn’t hold as much value because you already earned one, and would be worthless in the 75th Panzerter for the same reason.” Kennedy mulled it over for a moment.
“A counter-point,” Kennedy said. “If so many high honors are awarded inside a regiment, it raises the standing of the Regiment itself as well as individuals outside of it.” He set his whiskey down to talk with his hands. “So like G-SGT Dan earns an OMB, he’d be compared to me and the rest of the ‘heroic regiment that earns these awards’, so the value would go up.” Chaney pointed at him.
“But do you value your medals?” he asked. “Like your old ones?” Kennedy shrugged.
“I guess not as much,” he said. “I mean I earned them, but it all built me up to the point where I earned this one, but I’m also not pinning for more because at the end of the day the rewards I want aren’t medals.” Chaney smiled as he stirred his whiskey.
“Well, my friend, those are the rewards we don’t discuss with the public,” Chaney said. “Which reminds me, your valor in securing the Tarnotów pocket really got the attention of First Minister Pennington, Ballard is going to be able to see his daughter.” Kennedy leaned forward in his seat.
“So the Union officially recognizes her as his daughter?” he asked. Chaney twisted his open hand.
“More or less,” he replied. “The Union at large is, but the Cascadian MR isn’t.” Kennedy clenched his fist.
“Then sick the IRS on them!” Kennedy cried. “They’re actively impeding the war effort by harming the mental health of a guard-soldier!” the older man shook his head.
“They both sit on the oversight board for major logging cooperatives,” he said. “It’s not that simple, and we’re lucky Pennington forced them to allow Ballard to see his daughter for a weekend.” Kennedy rose from his chair as he knocked back his whiskey.
“It’s bullshit, he’s doing more for that young girl’s future than those two are sitting on a board somewhere safe.”
“They’re elderly Ken, it’s not like we can draft them,” Chaney
said. “Besides, their counterargument is no matter how well he does, he’s doing what he was bred to do, same for you.” The cackling fire filled the silence. Though Kennedy and Ballard looked the same as any other Union citizen, they’d been born in batches and grown inside artificial chambers instead of a woman. Like all tubers, they didn’t enjoy the same rights as natural born union citizens, but rather had to earn them back through state service.
“Still no sign of Fletcher?” Kennedy asked. Chaney shook his head.
“Our intel suggests she was sent to the rear,” he said. “Possibly a prison camp, possibly a direction table. We really have no way of knowing.” Kennedy plopped back into his easy chair.
“They should include some escape or evasion training in case our pilots get captured,” he said. Chaney sipped more whiskey.
“The party line is, don’t get captured,” he said. “Granted, it seems like it would have been hard for Fletcher to do unconscious inside a downed Martian.” The older man rose from his lounge chair. “Come on, if we’re not careful, the whiskey’s going to start doing the talking, let me show you around more of Congregation.” He rose and motioned for Kennedy to follow him outside.
The hotel they stayed at felt more like a section of a larger building than its own building in a larger city. Along the ceiling, pipes circulated the hot gasses from the fireplaces to heat the floor above them. Even through his boots, the tile he walked on felt warm.
“Everyone knows Congregation is underground,” Chaney said. “It’s common knowledge, but you need to appreciate it in full you need to see it yourself.” They walked down a series of winding hallways, eventually coming to a large atrium. The atrium led to an even larger open area. High above his head, a massive glass like dome held the snow and brutal winter away.
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