Cost of victory armored.., p.1
Cost of Victory (Armored Warrior Panzerter Blackwater Book 5), page 1
COST OF VICTORY
ARMORED WARRIOR PANZERTER BLACKWATER
BOOK 5
T.E. BUTCHER
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilouge
A Word From the Author
Preview of Constellation
ONE
1330 05 October 2136
Near Vespa
Roland grinned in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The Ozelot, once reduced to scrap after a chaotic battle, had been restored and refurbished in a way he couldn’t have imagined. All eight—eight—quad gimbaling thrusters on the backpack, joined by two in-wing binders on the shoulders and two in-wing binders on the hips, not only provided more boost than ever before, but far more control. It particularly helped him evade his younger pilots.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re enjoying yourself,” Ice Queen, his squadron XO, said over the radio.
Roland touched down on a glob of waste rock before pushing off and maximizing his thrust for a quick burst. The paint rounds of the opposing division splashed harmlessly against the rock.
“Damn it!” Gray Ross growled. “I can’t touch him in this damn Bearcat!”
“What’s the matter, Gray? I thought you were born for this.” Roland chuckled as he whipped around, evading more paint rounds.
“Oh, so you’re just going to taunt the poor kid now?” Ice asked.
Roland’s grin turned a shade wicked.
“Kat should keep a better handle on her division,” he replied.
“Gray,” Kat groaned as if on cue. “Quit chasing him like that. You’re going to get shot.”
Roland spun and whirled through the debris and waste rock, inviting the young pilot to chase him deeper into the shoal zone.
“Alright, Gray,” Roland muttered. “You’re good, but let’s see how much you’ve been studying.” With a grunt, he lined up all eight of his thrusters and vaulted forward. 10.75 Gs pushed him into his seat, and he grunted from the sudden acceleration. Not even close to all out. I need to be more careful with that.
He swung his unit’s legs forwards, assisting the motion with some braking thrust before shooting upwards into a cluster of waste rock. Cutting his thrusters, he spun around and touched down on one of the drifting rocks, sliding around its circumference before pushing off and clinging to another clump of waste rock.
Sure enough, Gray followed along the route he’d initially taken, but hesitated near Roland’s position. For a guy who can see the future, he’s awful susceptible to tricks.
Gray cruised through the waste rock, oblivious to Roland clinging to the debris nearby. He couldn’t help but smile wider. The young pilot blundered right into his crosshairs and caught a full burst of paint rounds.
“What the hell?”
Roland laughed. “Hold station near the boundary. We’ll all fly back together,” he said. “Now to finish off your team.” He took a few more steps before pushing off his perch and igniting his thrusters.
“Ugh, Gray, are you dead again?” Kat asked as she entered the shoal zone with Giselle Ross on her left and Yo-Yo on her right. “I told you, I told you—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence, as Roland swooped down and took out Smoker from behind. “Aw shit!”
“Gray can’t talk, Kat, he’s dead,” Roland said with a grin. “And Yo-Yo’s down.” He rolled over, redirecting his thrusts and forcing Giselle and Kat to both overshoot him. Coming back around, he quickly closed the distance on the two Bearcat-C’s, pelting them both with paint rounds. “And that’s four. Let’s RTB. After your pushups, I’ll meet you for your AAR. Then you can help the techs scrape the paint off.”
“Ugh. That iteration suuucked,” Kat complained.
“Well, think about what happened while you do your pushups, and we’ll talk about it at the AAR,” Roland said. “Remember, it’s only a failure here if you didn’t learn anything.”
“How come I couldn’t sense you?” Gray asked. “I had no idea when you were going to attack. That almost never happens.”
Roland tapped his chin.
“I’m not sure, to be honest,” he replied. “The working theory is that you guys sense hostile intent from other pilots, as much as you can feel each other’s intent.” He thought back to the exercise and chuckled. “When I attacked, I guess because I treated it as a practical joke, it didn’t register in your mind as hostile intent. Hell, have you ever been pranked before?”
Gray and Giselle were . . . complicated to say the least. Born in a test tube and raised from birth to be Panzerter pilots, the two were rare tuber twins. The Prometheus Institute, a shadowy organization in the Union associated with the Mobile Assault Guards, had sequestered them for latent psionic talents, though the full extent of those was still being explored. Since being recovered by the Tharcians, both had registered under the tuber amnesty and service program. Now they both served Tharsis in the Thunderbolt Squadron, one of Tharsis’s premier Special Forces squadrons. Yet . . . they were teenagers.
“Think we’ll go help with the blockade?” Giselle asked.
Roland shrugged.
“It kinda seems like an inappropriate use of a SF Squadron,” he said. “We’re really meant for very kinetic, very liquid situations. The blockade is a lot more static. They can do just fine with what they have.”
“But ships move around the blockade all the time,” Giselle pointed out. “So I guess, what do you mean by kinetic and static?”
Roland smiled.
“A blockade is like a siege, but in water or space,” he replied. “Nothing gets in or out. It’s a battle of wills. Without resupply, the blockade’s target will need to weather hunger and equipment failure, and in the case of a space fortress, air and water stagnation. But it takes a lot of effort to enforce a blockade, a lot of coordination, and a lot of ships. And you still have to keep them all supplied and in position and run the patrols that are part of it. It’s a slow process, relying on the enemy to give up because they can’t stand being hungry and dirty and breathing bad air. But because the positions of both forces don’t change a lot, it’s a static situation.”
“Sounds miserable,” Giselle replied.
“It would be a lot better than a direct attack on the fortress,” Yo-Yo added. “We’d lose so many people and ships, it wouldn’t be worth it.”
Roland nodded.
“That’s the downside to a perfect defense,” he said. “If your position is so perfect your enemy can’t get in, then you can’t leave either.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, all of you are officers. Before you know it, there will be a time where your understanding of the big picture will be just as important as your ability to fly a Panzerter.” Vespa loomed ahead of them, and Roland smiled. “Alright, you’ll hear from me again in the AAR, but remember, pushups after you land.”
Gordon Arena, House Montgomery sector
Trafalgar
“So, what exactly is happening?” Rocco Swift asked as he took a seat in the arena. The massive complex could have fit several cruisers inside of it, but about a third of it was given over to seating. Rocco, and the rest of their contingent from the Union, sat in box seats—a large squared-off area with a bar behind him and a counter in front of his padded seat. The windows in front of him could be closed to tune out the noise, or so he’d been told. Below, thousands on tens of thousands packed the stadium seats.
“From what I understand, they’re holding a tournament,” Devlin said. “Panzerters. The winning house will lead the first attempt to break the blockade.” His younger brother wrinkled his nose. “It’s also an opportunity for some of the house armies’ standouts to gain some recognition, earn some glory, honor, whatever.” He waved a folded paper in front of Rocco. “There’s a program, you know.”
“You’re the one who reads everything,” Rocco replied. Then he narrowed his eyes. “There are twelve houses, right? Why are there twenty-four fighters?”
“Two from each house,” Devlin replied. “Which you would know if you read the bulletin.”
Cassandra brought them both drinks from the bar, and Devlin raised an eyebrow when his brother knocked back a beer.
“Should you be drinking?” he asked. “What about the pain meds?”
“I’ve skipped the past couple of days,” Rocco replied. Subconsciously, his fingers ran across his forearms, still heavily scarred from the surgeries. “It helps me stay focused.”
“Ah, I see you’ve found the refreshments,” a stately voice said behind them.
Rocco turned and dipped his head as the older gentleman approached. He wore a light tunic, perfectly suited to the climate-controlled box, bu
“Now, now, gentlemen, comrades, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.”
Duke John Foppington pulled out a chair and took a seat next to Rocco. “After all, I’m just a minor player in all this.”
“Your people have done a lot to help us,” Rocco replied. “It’s a respect thing. We can sweat jumping through all the hoops you royals have. It’s the least we can do to be grateful.”
“And that is why I love these Unionists,” another voice boomed. Rocco turned to see a large, imposing man with a powerful mustache approach the bar. Rocco moved to rise, but the big man waved him off. “Always straight to the point, so direct. I’d rather talk to you lot than other nobles any day.” The big man took a seat next to Devlin and popped open his window. “And today of all days, you’re in for a show.”
“Thank you, Sir Reginald,” Rocco replied. “I apologize again if the shock squadron aren’t using your title. It’s . . . an adjustment for them.”
Reginald Bernard Montgomery III laughed. “‘Comrade’ from the lips of a Unionist is just as noble as ‘Sir’ from an Avalonian, I think.” A serving girl brought him a drink, and he cracked a beer open. “I love tourney days. Takes me way back.” He cocked his head at Rocco and grinned. “Say, Comrade Rocco, another one might come around while we’re ensconced here. I wouldn’t mind a little exhibition match.”
Rocco raised an eyebrow. “I’ll admit, I’ve never seen your Panzerter in action, but I get the appeal,” he said. He elbowed his brother. “It might prove quite educational for the shock squadron.” His smile faltered. “Though I’ve been upgraded since the last time I seriously fought.” He touched his scars. “It might not be fair.”
“I’ll even the odds by closing my eyes, then,” Sir Reginald said with a grin. “I’ve fought enhanced before. My latest sparring partner is actually in this tourney. It’s not the cybernetics I’d be sweating over.” He knocked back more beer and wiped his mouth in a decidedly ignoble way. “My Panzerter has been custom-built for me since I was a child. Sitting in the cockpit is like sitting in an old glove.” He waggled a finger.
“But you, Rocco, you wreaked havoc in a mass-produced death trap that any peasant with an instruction manual could have flown, and then you painted it lime-green? That’s champion stuff right there.”
“You said your sparring partner is in the tournament?” Cassandra asked. She clutched a long beverage and sat near the Duke. “Which unit is he in?”
“Oh, he’s in a Rook.” Sir Reginald smiled broadly before laughing at his own joke. “Apologies, Lady Cassandra. You’ll know him when you see him. He might not be popular with the other houses, but they’re biased. The people will love him, though.”
“And why is that?” Devlin asked.
Reginald shook his empty bottle, indicating he wanted another drink, and passed Rocco’s empty bottle to the serving girl as well. Cold beer soon found its way to the counter.
“Because, my Union friends, our boy is going to wipe the floor with the opposition,” Sir Reginald finally said. “He’s . . . he’s working through some things. A whole lotta anger and resentment for such a young man. Tends to take it out on his sparring partners, the enemy.” He wiggled his hands. “That being said, he’s really something to watch.”
The crowd below began to cheer and roar as the Rooks strode out of a massive bay door on one end of the arena. They looked stately, bearing shields with their chapter’s seal, as well as a guidon flying the banner of their respective houses. Rocco caught sight of the first of the House Montgomery units, decked out in the Montgomery Gray, desert Khaki, and Royal red. Its shield bore the image of a rat wearing a turban, an image Rocco recognized from one of Sir Reginald’s chapters that answered directly to him.
He almost asked about the first one, but then he saw the second. It too carried the banner of House Montgomery, but its armor was black and white save for the royal red piping. Its shield bore a simple blue circle with a same color sword in it.
“I don’t recognize that chapter,” Rocco said.
“It’s my personal guard crest,” Sir Bernard replied, rising to his feet as the crowd’s cheers turned to a roar on seeing the stark Rook. “That’s right, little wizard, knock them dead.”
TWO
Gulf of Promise Air Control Bridge.
Roland pulled out Ice Queen’s chair, catching a smile from Captain Anna Strauss, before he did the same for Commander Baden.
“Shouldn’t she pull out your chair?” Lieutenant Commander Kris Merkel asked. “You are her superior after all.”
“Yes,” Roland said. “But I am a gentleman as well as an officer.”
Baden waved him off.
“Sit down. Kris, I’m a lady, and your superior, yet you didn’t do anything so polite.” Her gaze narrowed at her XO. “Sit down.” Once all the squadron commanders and XO’s were seated, Captain Strauss nodded to Commander Grendel and they began their meeting.
“I’m sure you guys have been shutting down rumor mills like crazy, but here’s the news,” the Intelligence officer began. “But we’re leaving Trafalgar’s blockade in the hands of other forces, mainly reserve fleets and PMCs.”
“PMCs?” asked Commander Jed Tomarecki, the Sabretooth’s new commander. “You mean mercenaries.”
Grendel took a breath. “It’s a contractor the colonies out here have worked with before—RAIL. They’re primarily taking care of logistics and support for the forces maintaining the blockade.”
“And since the blockade is no longer our fight, that brings us to our next assignment.” Captain Strauss pulled up a map of the Mars Sphere. “We’ve come up on a good window to return to the Mars Sphere. We’ll need to refuel at Trondheim before heading back because of orbital trajectories, but we should arrive in early-mid-November.”
“Do we have any idea what our mission set on return is going to look like?” Baden asked.
Captain Strauss shook her head.
“I’m not too sure,” she replied. “I do know there’s shore time involved, as the Gulf is getting a refit alongside at least a dozen other ships. Its main guns need inspection and servicing, and we’ll be taking on more replacement personnel and parts.”
She looked at Grendel, and the intel officer adjusted her glasses.
“We suspect the fleet is prepared to resume offensive operations inside our home sphere,” Grendel said. “Which gives us four principal targets. We have Camelot, the seat of power and Capital of Avalon—” She tapped the holo in the center of the table to shift to an image of the Asteroid capital.
“It looks like Trafalgar,” Roland said the second he saw it. “It’ll be a tough nut to crack either way, with the particle storms, debris fields, and gas clouds.”
“Same thing here,” Grendel said. “The King takes sedition very seriously and like his examples. Next on the list is Los Estrella, a Union asteroid fortress, or that’s what we used to think it was.”
The holo shifted again, this time displaying a spiked fortress, stark against the depths of space.
“You’re saying this isn’t a fortress?” Tomarecki said. “Could have fooled me.”
“It didn’t start that way,” Grendel said. She populated the holo with more images. Grand halls, luxurious finishing, and some majestic yet foreboding buildings. “Intel’s managed to pick up the schematics, and it looks like the Union was going to shift their capital from Foundation to Los Estrella, likely at the end of the war.” Grendel paused to push her glasses back onto her narrow face. “They’re using it as a fortress and staging ground now. Whatever hope of making it a new capital died with First Minister Pearson.”
