Armored Warrior Panzerter: Eve of Battle

by T. E. Butcher

  “It won’t happen in our lifetime,” Meyer said. “To accomplish something of that scale takes decades, lifetimes, I’ll give you we can’t just ignore partisans, but we will only be as rough as we need to.”

  “Whatever happened to whatever it takes to win?” Kennedy asked.

  Meyer rose out of her chair and jabbed a finger at Kennedy. “Damn it Comrade Colonel, I am your commander, and my division will be strong, what we will not be is cruel.” She huffed as she finished speaking. I’m getting no where like this, she’s exhausted, tired. If I keep riling her up, it will just hurt both of us.

  Slowly, he nodded. “I apologize, just the loss of so many so quickly clouded my judgement,” he said. “You have my word we will not be cruel.”

  “Thank you,” Meyer replied. As she rose to leave, she paused. “You know, when the panzerters were first created, the main selling point was how much they scared their enemies, not their firepower or mobility, but they terrified the religious extremists that cropped up in the early 2000s.”

  “So you’re saying what we need is a new weapon?” Kennedy asked, leaning forward slightly. Meyer shook her head.

  “Not necessarily, but I wanted to say a lot of historians believed that panzerters prevented the insurrections in the middle east from becoming longer wars,” she said. “So not everyone who thought along those lines was a monster, but like I said, it’s a tightrope to walk across.” And with that, she left him alone with his thoughts.

  We can’t win with half measures, half measures are why we’re here and not on the shores of the Mariner’s Gulf. He relaxed into the cheap pillow under his throbbing head. Meyer’s smart, she’ll come around. As he lay in silence in his bed, he fumbled for the remote. In fact, she may come around sooner rather than later. All I need to do is reveal the extent of Fuller’s incompetence.

  While flipping through the channels he had, he stopped on a documentary about Unions. Good, useless information about how our government operates, stuff every good Union citizen already knows, the perfect thing to put me to sleep.

  As his mind began settling, he began combing for ways to expose his colleague as incapable of holding his job. Were the recordings of his orders available? Most likely in his panzerter’s black box. Or he could just ask him to explain what happened in front of Meyer.

  Then the lightbulb went off. Of course I can do that, it’ll expose him for a fraud and leaving his soldiers to die. They can’t say anything against him, but I can. And I will. He needs to be dealt with for shrinking his responsibilities as outlined in the Constitution. That goes beyond MAG justice codes, that’s the standard for everyone in the Union.

  He smiled as he sank deeper into sleep. Yeah, I got him there, and the second he admits, Meyer will have no option but to order him terminated. Mow that he believed he had the perfect plan, he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him.

  Unbeknownst to him, a lone figure entered his room. When they saw the decorated MAG war hero laid up in a bed with bandages on their head, they smiled. A whole universe of possibilities opened up, all the wicked ways they could dispatch this man, but that wasn’t what they were here for. Rather, they walked next to his bed and laid a lock of blonde hair on his pillow.

  Snow covered the surrounding ground, but the Mercedes stuck to the wet roads. As Reiter sat in the passenger seat, he kept a wary eye on Smith. “I know how to drive, sir,” the young man replied.

  “I know,” Reiter replied. “But the roads are wet, and Black ice is a thing, besides I need to make sure you stay awake.” He reached down between his legs to lift up a green box of sodas.

  “Are those Highland Saps?” Smith asked.

  Reiter nodded. “Yeah, Courtesy of Friermann, he’s driving a different one of these with Hawke and them.” He handed the younger man a can, but Smith stopped him before he could crack it for him.

  “Sorry sir, I’m superstitious about people opening my drink,” he said. Reiter shrugged and handed him the unopened can before opening his own. Ice cold, just how he liked it. And how it would be when the carton had been sitting on the icy ground for two hours.

  As they talked, they kept their voices down. The wide Mercedes truck featured three rows of seats. In the middle row, 1st Sergeant slept with his ski cap over his eyes and his head against the window, with Merlin stuffed into the narrow middle seat, his head cocked straight back in a vain attempt to not touch the other passengers. Wesser didn’t care, and rested her head on the younger man’s chest, not out of anything more than him being softer than the door.

  In the back row, Mo and Steel cuddled for warmth under Steele’s blanket. Under normal circumstances, Reiter would have had concerns about their ability to keep their hands to themselves, but Webb sat next to them with his head in a pillow. Besides, they were both out like logs. It’s like a weird family road trip.

  “I barely recognize LT without her glasses,” Smith said.

  Reiter looked at him. “Focus on the road and not your sleeping LT,” he replied. But he had to agree. When Wesser wore her glasses, they drew attention to her eyes and the shape of her face. Without them and with her eyes closed, he realized her face was paler than he thought it was and heavily freckled around the horizontal center of her face.

  How can I know my soldiers if I barely recognize them without their glasses? At first Reiter considered giving up even trying, but then he decided against it. If I quit trying, they become names on a spreadsheet, then numbers, then they stop mattering at all to me.

  They’d pounded into his head in OMI of the potential horrors of war, of its dehumanizing effects. On some level, they knew these days would come again. I have to hold on to those ideals, otherwise, I could become an unfeeling husk. I wonder if that’s how Knight felt at the end.

  His memory of the duel was still fresh. Knight’s voice wasn’t angry, furious, or even self-righteous like the other Union pilots he’d talked to mid-combat. He’d just sounded broken, like a man in a pit of despair. I can’t become like that.

  “Sir?” Smith asked. Reiter blinked, realizing he’d zoned out.

  “Oh, sorry Smith,” he said. “I was just thinking about something, did you say something?”

  Smith patted the leather steering wheel. “This is a nice car, I wouldn’t mind owning one,” he said.

  “They’re expensive,” Reiter replied. “And if you have a dozen kids like your parents, you’ll need a bigger car, anyway.” Smith chuckled.

  “I don’t think I’ll have nearly as many kids, I’m not even married,” he replied. He took a swig of his Highland Sap and winced. “It’s more limey than I expected.”

  Reiter chuckled. “It’s green as green can get, what did you expect?” Smith jiggled the can in his hand.

  “It says Lemon lime right under the logo,” he replied. “If you put Lemon before lime, you expect it to be the dominate flavor.”

  “Which is easier to say?” Reiter said. “Lemon lime or lime lemon?”

  Smith bobbed his head. “Lemon lime for sure, but its deceptive.”

  Reiter held up the can and pointed to it. “The can is green, they’re not deceiving anyone.”

  “Then why call it highland sap?” he asked. “Because I doubt there’s any tree sap out there that tastes like lemons or limes.”

  “Oh so you went around licking every tree in these woods checking their flavor?” Reiter asked.

  As he kept a hand on the wheel, Smith raised another in mock surrender. “Hey sir, I’m just making an observation. The name and branding don’t make any sense.”

  With a wave of his hand, Reiter gestured to the surrounding terrain. Snowy covered pines and barren trees blanketed rugged and treacherous hills. In the distance to the south and behind them, Mountains reached towards the sky. “Look all around you, there’s your highland.”

  Apparently, their conversation grew a tad too animated. “Are you guys really arguing about a soda?” Wesser asked. “I was just starting to get some good sleep.”

&
nbsp; “Want one, ma’am?” Smith asked as Reiter pulled one of the long cans out of the pack. After a groggy look at both of them through squinted eyes, she wearily took the can.

  “Where did you guys even get these?” she asked.

  “Friermann,” Reiter replied. “He was handing them out to everyone taking a little road trip, I grabbed one, Comidus and Stovepipe grabbed one, I honestly have no idea how many of these he had stashed.”

  “When you’re in headquarters, you can make things happen,” 1st Sergeant said, surprising the three of them. “How many more of those do you have?”

  “Enough,” Reiter said as he reached back to hand the other man a soda. Merlin stirred.

  “Go to sleep, son,” The first sergeant said. Though he was mostly incoherent, Merlin’s babble sounded suspiciously close to “yes First Sergeant” before his snoring resumed.

  Sipping her soda, Wesser slowly nodded. “I may not have slept as much as I wanted, but at least we’re not moving in panzerters of God forbid IFVs,” She said.

  “Nothing wrong with sleeping in an IFV,” Webb said. “There’s just plenty of better places to sleep.” The drop trooper cracked his neck as he woke up.

  Seeing the rest of the pilots stirring, Reiter made a design. “Hey Smith, pull over here, let’s let everyone walk around for a bit and piss,” he said.

  21

  “Alright Comrades,” Chaney said as he brought his department heads together. “Army Command wants more innovation, so let’s give it to them, I want to hear your passion projects, your side gigs, anything you’ve been working on or want to work on, let’s have it.”

  This will probably be barely better than the proposals I just went through the other night, but I well might as well let them think we hear their voices. His panzerter development chief adjusted her glasses. “We’re still running into issues with the Type-VII engine,” she said. “So far we haven’t been able to safely reduce its weight and increase its output.”

  Chaney raised an eyebrow. “Safely?” She stirred uncomfortably.

  “There have been some accidents, Comrade Brigadier,” she replied. “But I would like more funding for that.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “I’ll make it a priority,” he said. “As far as panzerters go, I have guidance from Army command.” He pulled up a model of the Black Knight. “They want a medium panzerter that can perform either as well as the Black Knight or close enough to its specs, a mass production model that will form the base of the next generation family of Union panzerters.”

  “That’s asking a bit much,” the materials chief replied. “Matching the durability of a heavy panzerter on a medium chassis is no small feat.”

  With a shrug, Chaney dismissed the model. “Well, since the Tharcian’s heavy panzerter more than matches our medium panzerter’s agility, they don’t see the reverse as an arduous task.” He around the room. “However, we do have several strategic issues Army Command would like us to tackle, while I don’t believe science alone can solve all of our problems, it can give us a much easier time.”

  “Well, what are these issues?” The logistics chief asked.

  Chaney pulled up an infographic of their strategic issues. “As you can all see, there’s a laundry list of concerns, environmentally friendly methods of extracting resources on the surface, efficient ways of meeting the nutritional needs of our forces, restoring the orbital elevator, personnel shortage issues, extremist education and rehabilitation, like I said a laundry list,” he said as he gestured to the rest of the concerns.

  “I firmly believe our Impulse weapons project can aid with our resource issues,” the head of weapons development said. “I’ve been trying to find low ammo or ammoless solutions for all of our needs for a while now.”

  With a smile, Chaney nodded. “Yeah, and your efforts have been noticed,” he said. “Although there are two hard numbers that will doom us if they get too low.” He held up two fingers. “One: our personnel, and two: our rations.” He looked around the room. “If either of those numbers falls below a certain threshold, nothing else matters.”

  “I may have some solutions,” The head of biology said. “As long as we have the resolve to see them through.” Newton’s laws, what am I about to hear?

  “Go ahead,” Chaney said as he gestured to the man. “The floor is open, comrade doctor.” Dr. Withers adjusted his glasses.

  “Well, as you know, we’ve begun testing our handicappable cockpit refits,” he said. Chaney nodded as he remembered approving the proposal before the war when he foresaw multitudes of pilots’ missing limbs.

  “I’m familiar with the project,” he said. “And that will indeed help our personnel issues.” As he spoke, the thought of veteran pilots who’d been maimed returning to service fully capable of performing relaxed his mind.

  “Well, given the nature of the technology,” Dr. Sinister said. “it would theoretically be possible to fit a still living brain in a specially designed cockpit.” An uncomfortable tension rose in the room.

  “You said still living brain,” Chaney said. “Are you implying that the body is-“

  “Dead?” the doctor asked. “Yes, we can use brains of our fallen soldiers to pilot machines.” So would they just live as a machine? It seems like an existential nightmare.

  “It’s going to be an uphill battle getting consent from individuals before they die or their families,” Chaney said. “That will make testing difficult.”

  “Well, I was just going to use dead tubers,” Dr. Withers said. “Their organs get donated anyway, we only need the one least likely to be used anyway, besides they’re state property and we wouldn’t need their consent, anyway.”

  After taking a deep breath, Chaney rested his elbows on the table and tented his fingers. “Let’s stick with a feasibility study for now,” he replied. Dr. Withers seemed satisfied with that answer and nodded slowly.

  “We’ll see too it,” he replied. “I also want o look into advanced growth techniques on our tubers, compress their development time further.” He waved his hand. “Growth hormones, enhanced education techniques, advanced physical training all combined could potentially shave four years off of their growth, making them combat capable at 14.”

  “Feasibility study,” Chaney replied. “Those hormones could make their bodies more greedy for nutrition, remember food is still an issue, which reminds me.” He lowered his arms and looked directly at the doctor. “How’s the research into those seed samples we acquired progressing?”

  Dr. Sinister shook his head. “Our counterparts in space haven’t exactly been forthcoming with their own developments, in fact some in my department claim that they have the man who developed the seeds themselves working on one of the belt settlements.”

  With a sigh, Chaney scribbled a note. “I’ll have to talk to my sources about that, but if true, that’s an incredible breach of trust on the part of our Naval counterparts.” He looked at his head of panzerter engineering. “Halt all data sharing relating to the new engine, change the passwords on the cloud drives, and leave the Naval department in the dark. If they want us to starve, then they don’t get a lightweight engine.”

  She nodded and made a few notes to herself. “They’ve been pinning for any breakthroughs we get, but never offering us anything,” she replied. “All take, no give.”

  After hearing out a few more less interesting and workable proposals, Chaney adjourned the meeting. As he gathered his things to leave. The good doctor stopped him. “There is one more thing I wanted to look into,” he said. “But one I didn’t want the others to overhear.”

  Chaney nodded. On the inside he rolled his eyes, but he was nothing but agreeable externally. “Well shoot, let’s hear it.”

  “I believe we can cultivate psionic abilities in the tubers,” Dr. Sinister said. “Nothing dramatic or crazy, but things like negative reaction time, enhanced perceptiveness.” Chaney sighed, but held his skepticism in check. I don’t believe in psychics per se, b
ut what he’s describing is more akin to pushing human ability to its limit.

  “A feasibility study,” he said. “I need feasibility studies for anything that isn’t an active project.”

  As the bitter winter wind swept over them, Field Marshall Hausnerr clutched at his hat. The test range displayed multiple pop ups targets approximating troops, armored vehicles, and panzerters. The delegation behind him included senior members of the Vinnish government and military as well as his own general staff.

  He led them to a door set into a hill. The room inside had been built from a pair of aluminum cargo containers. Screens and monitors dominated the ceilings and walls while a large table centered the room. Heaters in the back corners proved more than adequate to keep the cold outside at bay.

  “Ah, it’s about time we got out of the cold,” the ambassador from Vinland said. After a look from Hausnerr, she straightened her back. “Just ‘cause it’s like this at home doesn’t mean we love it.” He nodded and received a salute from a Colonel heading up the project.

  “Is everything ready?” Hausnerr asked. The other man nodded.

  “Roger sir, our pilot is roaring and ready to go,” he replied before pointing to the main monitor. The whole of the test range was visible to them, with secondary monitors displaying target status as well as that of the new panzerter. Hausnerr waved the ambassador forward.

  “You admitted your military hadn’t developed a heavy panzerter,” he said. “This is one of our newer designs, we’re currently fielding two, the Panzerter VII or Lowe, and this model the Panzerter VI or as the test pilots call her, the Tiger.”

  The ground rumbled beneath them as the massive panzerter strode into view. It resembled the IV, at least superficially. Massive slabs of armor covered its limbs and body. It had the same helmeted head and sensor package as its smaller cousin, but shared the pointed antenna of its heavy panzerter cousin.