[Imperial Guard 01] - Fifteen Hours

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

“I had no choice, sir,” Drezlen said. “We were faced with an emerging situation, and you were elsewhere—”

  “Don’t try and lay the blame for this debacle at my door, Drezlen.” The general’s cheeks grew florid with rage. “You will only end up making matters worse for yourself, you hear me? I know very well I was away from Sector Command. I was at General Headquarters, where fortunately I was made aware of your alert order in time to quash it before all hell could let loose.”

  “You… quashed it?” Drezlen said, appalled. “You countermanded the alert?”

  “Of course I did. Have you any idea of the fuss an alert order can cause? Troops are seconded from other sectors all across the city, extra supplies are sent up, reserve units are brought forward to the front. Sweet Emperor, man! Don’t you know a sector has to be on the verge of being overrun before an order to go to Alert Condition Red is warranted? Never mind the fact that, by issuing an alert on your own authority, you violated the chain of command!”

  “You countermanded the alert,” Drezlen said quietly, his face ashen. “I can’t believe it…”

  “Yes. And by doing it I likely saved you from a firing squad,” the volume of the general’s voice had fallen, his manner growing more composed as his anger abated. “But you can thank me for that later, Drezlen. First, I want you to start giving me some answers.”

  “Answers?” Drezlen was curt. “Very well, general. Let me give you all the answers you could want.” He turned towards a nearby Guardsman seated beside a control panel covered in dials and switches. “Corporal Venner? Activate the pict-display and bring up the current situation map for our sectors. Let us see if we can show the general exactly why I believed we had reached Alert Condition Red status.”

  At the flick of a switch the large rectangular pict-display set into one of the Situation Room’s walls suddenly hummed into life, a small white dot appearing in the middle of the black screen before expanding to cover its entire surface. Then, as Corporal Venner worked another series of switches, the situation map for Sectors 1-10 through 1-20 appeared on screen. A mosaic coloured in blues, greens, and reds: blue for the areas under Imperial control; green for the parts held by the orks; red for the territories whose ownership was currently being contested.

  “I don’t understand,” the general said, looking up at the pict-display in confusion. “I don’t remember seeing all this red on the board when I left for General Headquarters this morning.”

  “Matters have developed considerably since then, general,” Drezlen said. “As of fifteen minutes ago no less than ten of the eleven sectors under your command are currently being attacked by the orks. In each case, the pattern is the same: massed assaults preceded by lengthy bombardment by enemy artillery, as well as coordinated attacks on vital facilities by gretchin suicide bombers and ork troops. Currently, it is unclear how many of these assaults are the real thing and how many are intended only as diversions to put pressure on our resources.”

  “Diversions? Lengthy bombardments? Coordinated attacks?” the general’s expression was incredulous. “Have you lost your mind, man? You’re talking as though the enemy were working to some kind of coherent plan of action. For the Emperor’s sake, these are orks we are talking about! They don’t have the brains or organisational ability to put anything like that in motion.”

  “Be that as it may, sir, it appears that is precisely what they are doing. So far, we are holding on by our fingernails. But if you want to see just how bad things here could get, take a look at Sector 1-13.”

  “1-13?” the general said. “What are you talking about Drezlen? The situation map says Sector 1-13 is blue.”

  “Yes, sir. And what is more, it is the only sector that has yet to be attacked. And I ask you, leaving aside for a moment the fact that our enemies are orks, what does that suggest to you?”

  “You don’t mean?” the general blustered. “But that is impossible, colonel…”

  “Ordinarily I would agree, sir. But there seems to be a pattern here. And, given that pattern, we have to ask why would the orks launch a major offensive against every sector to the side of it and leave Sector 1-13 unmolested? Unless what we are seeing on the situation map are only the opening moves of a larger assault intended to tie up our forces and allow the orks a clear ran at their real target. Imagine it, general: if the orks were to launch a full-scale assault on Sector 1-13 now, there would be precious little we could do to stop them achieving a sector-wide breakthrough.”

  “But if that happened, our forces in other sectors would have to retreat or risk being cut off. It could turn into a rout. No. It is just not possible, Drezlen. They are orks. Savages. They are not clever enough to have…”

  For a moment, turning to gaze intently at the pict-display before him the general fell quiet. Watching the old man’s troubled face as he silently wrestled with all he had heard, Colonel Drezlen felt a sudden sympathy for him. General Pronan was an old school solider, thoroughly indoctrinated by his forty years in the Guard in the belief that all aliens were little better than animals. The idea he might have been outmanoeuvred by them, and by orks for that matter, would be hard for him to swallow but it was a matter of evidence. Slowly, Drezlen saw a grim look of resolve come over the general’s face. He had made his decision.

  “All right, then,” the general said at last. “Let us assume for the sake of argument your theory is correct. Can we reinforce Sector 1-13?”

  “No, sir. As I say, all our forces are tied up fighting off the orks in other sectors.”

  “What about our forces already inside Sector 1-13? Who do we have stationed there?”

  “Company Alpha, the 902nd Vardan Rifles, commanded by Sergeant Eugin Chelkar.”

  “A single company?” the general’s voice was a dry whisper. “Commanded by a sergeant? That’s all we have? But, Holy Throne, if you are right and the attack comes—”

  “Yes, sir.” Colonel Drezlen said. “If that happens, then two hundred and something Guardsmen are all that stands between us and this entire map going green.”

  He dreamed of home. He dreamed of spring: the earth of the fields wet and rich as the seeds were planted. He dreamed of summer: the sky blue and endless overhead as rows of golden wheat grew ripe below it. He dreamed of autumn: the same sky now thick with lazy smoke from the burning of the stubble after the harvesting was done. He dreamed of winter: the fields dizzyingly empty, the ground hard with frost. He dreamed, his dreams a jumbled montage of people, places, memories, recollections.

  He dreamed of home.

  He dreamed of the days of his youth. Of the change of the seasons. Of happiness, peace and contentment.

  And then, he awoke to hell once more.

  Starting awake at the sound of an explosion overheard, for an instant Larn had no idea where he was. Gazing blearily about him in confusion, he recognised the dugout and realised he must have fallen asleep on one of the bunks while the others were talking. Then, he heard another explosion much louder than the first and looked up to see a thin trickle of soil fall downwards through the gap between two of the wooden planks that made up the dugout’s inner ceiling.

  “That was a close one,” he heard Bulaven’s voice say calmly. “I wouldn’t like to be above ground in the middle of this one.”

  Becoming fully awake, Larn realised he had inadvertently fallen asleep on top of his mess tin. Wiping away a chunk of congealed gruel that had stuck to his uniform, he turned to see the Vardans were still gathered nearby. Bulaven sat in one bunk rubbing dubbing into his boots; Scholar sat in another reading his book; while, incredibly, despite the now continuous roar of explosions overheard, Davir lay in another bunk sound asleep.

  “Ah, you are awake, new fish,” Bulaven said, gesturing up with his thumb toward the ceiling at the sound of more explosions overhead. “I can’t say I am surprised. They are making enough noise up there to wake the dead.”

  “They are shelling us again?” Larn asked. “Our own side, I mean?”

  �
��Hmm? Oh no, new fish,” Bulaven said. “It is the orks this time. If you listen closely you can hear the difference, ork shells have a duller sound to them when they explode. Still, you needn’t worry. These dugouts are built to last. We should be quite safe so long as we are in here.”

  “Unless, of course, a shell scores a direct hit on the dugout’s ventilation chimney.” Scholar raised his eyes from his book. “Even if the shell doesn’t break through it, the chimney is still likely to funnel the explosion down here.”

  “True,” Bulaven said. “Ach, but that hardly ever happens, new fish. You needn’t worry about that. Anyway, this bombardment won’t last long. The orks have no staying power when it comes to these things, you see. Chances are whichever ork is in charge of their big guns has become overexcited for some reason and has decided to let off a few rounds in celebration. Trust me, new fish, in ten minutes’ time or so it will all be over.”

  “How long has it been now,” Larn asked, listening to the muffled thud and whump of shells striking the ground above the dugout.

  “About an hour, I’d say,” Bulaven shrugged, now busy cleaning the trigger mechanism of his heavy flamer. “Maybe three-quarters. Looks like the orks must be very excited. Still, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Don’t let it ruin your barracks time, new fish. They are bound to get tired of shelling us sooner or later.”

  Finding himself far from reassured, Larn looked upward to see another trickle of soil falling from the gaps between the wooden planks of the ceiling. Remembering a dream of tattered crones standing around his grave as shovelfuls of earth hit his face, Larn felt an involuntary shiver ran through him. Those explosions sound close, he thought. What if one of the shells hits the dugout entrance and we are trapped down here? Would anyone on the surface be able to dig us out? Would they even try? Sweet Emperor, it might be better if what Scholar talked about happened instead and a shell hit the ventilation chimney. At least then it would be quick. You would be dead before you knew it. Not buried alive in this tomb of a dugout, waiting for your air to run out or to slowly die of thirst and starvation.

  Abruptly, realising his nerves were beginning to shred at the constant sound of explosions and the thought of what those explosions might cause, Larn begin to scan the interior of the dugout in search of something — anything — to take his mind from what was going on above them. Around him, the dugout had become crowded with men who had taken refuge from the shelling. Among them he saw Sergeant Chelkar, Medical Officer Svenk, and some of the men from Repzik’s fireteam. While the din of explosions continued overhead, here life inside the dugout seemed to be proceeding just as it had before the shelling started. He saw Vardans eating, talking, laughing, drinking recaf; some of them even trying to sleep like Davir. Then, Larn noticed Zeebers was still sitting alone against one of the dugout walls, idly tossing a knife around in his hand to catch first the blade, then the hilt.

  Watching Zeebers playing with his knife, Larn felt a sudden urge to have the answer to a question that had been gnawing at him ever since he had first met the man.

  “Bulaven?” he asked. “Before, remember when you told me that I shouldn’t worry too much at the things Davir said? That it was just his way?”

  “Of course I remember, new fish.” Bulaven said. “Why do you bring it up?”

  “Well, I was wondering about Zeebers…” Abruptly Larn paused, uncertain how best to broach the subject.

  “Zeebers, new fish? What about him?”

  “I think he has noticed that Zeebers has been showing a certain hostility towards him, Bulaven,” Scholar said, raising his eyes from his book once more to look at Larn. “I am right, yes, new fish? That is what you were about to ask?”

  “Ah, I see,” said Bulaven. “Well, there is no great secret there, new fish. Zeebers just gets nervous whenever there are any more than four men in our fireteam.”

  “Nervous?” asked Larn. “Why?”

  “It is a matter of superstition with him,” Scholar said. “Apparently, on Zeebers’ homeworld the number four is considered lucky. Then, when he first came to Broucheroc and joined us there were only three men left in our fireteam - Bulaven, Davi, and myself. Hence, Zeebers was the fourth man, lucky number four to his mind, and he has convinced himself that is how he survived his first fifteen hours — not to mention how he has survived ever since. So, you see, whenever they send us a new replacement and there are five men in the fireteam he tends to believe his luck has become endangered somehow. You remember before I said every man here has his own theory as to how he survived where so many others have died? Zeebers’ beliefs are but anomer example of the same thing.”

  “You see, new fish, no great mystery.” Bulaven said, before abruptly turning his head to look over at another part of the dugout. “Hmm, looks like something is brewing.”

  Following the direction of Bulaven’s gaze, Larn saw Sergeant Chelkar standing deep in conversation with Corporal Vladek by the quartermaster’s table in the corner of the barracks. Then, while Sergeant Chelkar walked away to talk to someone else, Vladek turned to open a wooden crate beside him and, one-by-one, began to carefully pull out a number of heavy demolitions charges and stack them on the table before him. As he did, Larn noticed that Bulaven’s face had grown suddenly uneasy as though the big man had seen something in Vladek’s actions to worry him.

  “What is it, Bulaven?” he asked. “What have you seen?”

  “A bad sign, new fish.” Bulaven said. “Between me and you, a very bad sign indeed.”

  “We are at Alert Condition Red,” Chelkar said, his face grave as he addressed the Guardsmen standing before him while overhead the sound of explosions continued. “Sector Command says we can expect an assault. A big one, probably timed to begin the moment this bombardment ends. Looks like the orks are going to hit us hard this time. Leastways, harder than any of the other attacks we’ve had to deal with today.”

  A few minutes had passed and in the wake of his conversation with the quartermaster, Sergeant Chelkar had ordered the men in Barracks Dugout One to arm themselves and assemble around the iron stove for an impromptu briefing. Scholar, Bulaven, Davir, Zeebers, the other fireteams, even Vladek and the one-armed cook Skench, stood in their battle gear listening intently to Chelkar’s words, their expressions every bit as grave and serious as their sergeant’s. Looking about him, Larn saw that the easy and relaxed manner with which these men had enjoyed their time in the barracks was gone now. They were soldiers once more. Guardsmen. They were ready for war.

  “I won’t lie to you.” Chelkar said. “Things look grim. Every other sector in the area is under heavy assault and all reserve units are tied up elsewhere. Which means no there is no potential for reinforcements — at least not for several hours. Worse, Battery Command is already tasked to the limit, so we can’t expert artillery support either. We still have our own mortars, of course, and our fire support teams but, other than that, we are on our own.

  “Now for the good news. Sector Command has made it clear that if we lose here there is the danger of a major ork breakthrough into the city. Accordingly, they have ordered that we are to hold this sector at all costs. Stand or die, they say. No matter how many orks come at us or how hard they hit us, we are to hold on until we are reinforced, the ork assault fails, or the Emperor descends to fight alongside us — whichever one of those comes first. We hold the line. I don’t care if hell itself comes calling. We hold the line no matter what. Not that we have much choice here anyway, you understand.

  You all know what happens if we retreat. The commissars don’t even bother with a court martial anymore: it’s just a bullet in the back of the head and a place on the corpse-pyres. This is Broucheroc: between the orks and our own commanders, there’s just nowhere else left for us to go.

  As for our plan of defence, I have ordered Vladek to distribute four extra frag grenades to each man and one demolition charge per fireteam. Once the assault begins we will hold the forward firing trenches for as long as possib
le, only retreating to the dugout emplacements when the situation there becomes untenable. Then, once we’re at the dugout emplacements we will make a stand. That’s as far as we go. After that, it’s hold the line or die.

  “Are there any questions?”

  No one spoke. Silently, the Guardsmen stood gazing back at their sergeant with resolve and determination etched into every line of their faces. For better or worse, they were ready.

  “All right, then,” said Chelkar. “We have been in this situation often enough before to make saying anything else irrelevant. You all know what is ahead of us. I will say only this. Good luck to every one of you. And, fates willing, let us all see each other again when the battle is over.”

  “Maybe it is The Big Push,” Larn heard one of the Vardans say as he hung the extra grenades Vladek had given him on his belt and went over to join the other members of Fireteam Three. “Emperor knows, it was bound to happen sometime.”

  “It can’t be,” said another man nearby. “General Headquarters would have told us.”

  “Phah. You are fooling yourself,” a third man said. The damn generals refuse to even admit The Big Push exists.

  “When it finally does come they’ll be caught as much by surprise as the rest of us.”

  The Big Push. By then Larn had heard the phrase used several times already, whispered amongst themselves by grim-faced Guardsmen as they stood in the dugout making final adjustments to their weapons and equipment as the bombardment continued above them. Each time he heard it, Larn found something in the tone of the way they said the phrase that made him uneasy. It was a tone, he realised, of nervousness and quiet anxiety. The tone of fear, he thought with a sudden shudder.

  “Bulaven?” he asked the big man beside him. “What is The Big Push?”

  For a moment the Vardan was silent, his usually affable manner replaced by the bleak and brooding expression of a parent who realises he can no longer protect his child from the dark realities of the world.