by Guy Haley
Colonel Vertor Lo Strabannick slapped the chart desk, causing the image to break up. ‘We’ve seen enough. I want this perfidious drivel blocked. Search out the transmission frequency and jam it, do you understand?’
A regimental intelligence officer gave a curt bow. ‘Yes, colonel.’ He hurried from the tent out into the rain.
The departing man’s superior, Captain Askro Lo Verlannick, stood up straight and looked around the room. ‘It goes on in this vein for some time. Note the repetition of the request to lay down arms. You must watch your men for signs of disobedience. This tactic might seem crude, but it can work.’
‘Governor Juvis is dead,’ said the colonel. He was a gruff man, white in beard, his skin wrinkled by decades of strife. ‘Perhaps the terms we offered him were acceptable. It looks like he died for his wisdom. Unless this is some ploy, lowborns are in charge now, men who have decided the order of the Imperium is not for them, who would take and execute their anointed ruler. If they will decry order and reject our offers with blood, they will have disorder and death. We strike before dissent seeds itself in our ranks. This siege has gone on too long. Gentleman, you have seen the superheavy tanks we have been assigned: they are the Eighth Paragonian Assault Heavy Tank Company. Honoured Captain Ardoman Kosigian Lo Parrigar is their company commander.’
A man detached himself from the mass of officers in the room. He wore a long coat, tank commander flashes on his cuffs and collars, badges that were familiar to them all but with strange variations; superheavy tank companies were rare. The honoured captain – the rank too, was unusual – let them all get a look at him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and nothing else.
‘Honoured Captain Kosigian Lo Parrigar has recently been fighting at Kesseltown; the garrison there capitulated four days ago. This palace is the last major source of resistance on Gullen. I won’t mince words with you. That the defence laser here is still operational is an intense personal embarrassment to me, and a mark on the honour of the 477th. Tomorrow, that installation will be in our hands, or we will all die trying. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir!’ said the officers of the 477th.
The colonel nodded approvingly. ‘Very well. Let us draw up our plans, and finish this rebellion once and for all.’
Jonas volunteered the tattered remnants of his platoon to join the lead elements of the assault, and so, the following morning, found himself in the cramped command deck of Righteous Vengeance, Parrigar’s command tank, listening to the muffled detonations of artillery shells falling on the far side of the siege line, as Honoured Captain Parrigar gave him a quick tour of the machine.
The deck was jammed with Adeptus Mechanicus devices beyond his comprehension. Several Paragonians were intent on their screens. Parrigar’s command throne took up the centre of the deck, directly behind the machine’s massive main armament. The ceiling was low and every available surface not taken up by tactical displays or controls was criss-crossed by webbing crammed with personal effects. The place smelled as a confined space occupied by eight men for long periods of time will smell.
‘Fire control, primary weapon,’ said Parrigar. He was a man of few words, snapping off those he chose to expend as rapidly as sniper fire. He pointed to a recessed chair by the Vulcan’s back. ‘Ammo hoppers, first loader’s position. Tertiary – sponson,’ he deigned to explain, ‘– fire command.’ Two desks, one by the other, on the right side. ‘Third gunner and third loader.’
‘Where’s the second gunner, sir?’ asked Jonas. He found his curiosity piqued. It was not every day one stood upon the command deck of a superheavy tank. Paragon was unusually blessed with superheavy tanks, but even if all were gathered in one place, the Paragonian superheavies would number fewer than a hundred.
Parrigar shook his head. ‘No second gunner; that’s for the Baneblades, Stormhammers and suchlike, all of which have a secondary weapon. We keep the same rank structure. Allows crew transfer without anyone getting uppity. Space on my charge is taken up by passengers, the likes of you, lieutenant.’
Parrigar leaned in close when he said this, flashing a grin that was only just the right side of sane. The way Jonas figured it, you’d have to be crazy to drive right into the heart of the enemy, even in a two-hundred tonne behemoth. He reminded himself that he was going along for the ride.
Parrigar returned to his rapid-fire tour. ‘Comms desk, that’s where my SIC sits, Lieutenant Gulinar.’ He indicated a long desk that ran the length of the left-hand side of the deck, every centimetre of it filled with one arcane device or another. The officer there held up a hand without stopping what he was doing. He pointed at a station half recessed into the floor at the rear. ‘Tech desk – we’ve a tech-adept all our own, you know. But we’re not a sophisticated machine. Simple. Big battle carriage. Get you men in, get you out, mow down the other man, give your grunts a chance. Privilege. Can’t go fast, but that’s not the point.’ He patted the low ceiling. ‘Not many of these in the Imperium, not many at all.’ That febrile grin, there and gone again. He signalled to Gulinar. The man barely paused in his multiple tasks to flick a switch. A harsh klaxon blared out. ‘Hear that once, you’re off over the side of the fighting deck. Hear it twice, get back in double-quick time or as sure as the Emperor watches us we’ll all be leaving you behind. Questions?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Good. Now get off my command deck.’
Jonas emerged from the dark onto the enclosed fighting deck that occupied the rear two-thirds of the tank. The plasteel parapet that surrounded it was as high as his shoulders. He blinked at the sudden watery brightness of Gullen’s orange sun. It was cloudy as always, and raining, but today the rain was soft, barely worth Jonas’s notice. Thunder rumbled, but of no atmospheric source; the big guns sounded louder now he was out from behind Righteous Vengeance’s armour plating. Bosarain, flag furled on his shoulder, nodded at him.
The berm rose up in front of Righteous Vengeance. Atlas engineering tanks mounted with dozer blades and earth scoops dug at it, clearing part of it away to allow the superheavies through. The Stormlords were drawn up in a shallow arrow formation, Righteous Vengeance slightly ahead of War Forged and the Saint Josef. The heavy tank company would form a hammer blow on the defence line, breaking it utterly in one place and allowing the 477th to pour through. The infantry and Chimeras of this final push waited behind them for the signal to advance. Far back in the camp, on the sodden landing field outside its ordered, muddy streets, Jonas could just about make out the whine of Valkyrie engines as they went through their pre-flight checks.
Their main objective was simple. Once Jonas and the others had secured the Hydra batteries defending the redoubt, three squads of Paragonian Commandoes would land atop the Palatine Redoubt, fight their way in, and blow up the laser’s geothermal power plant. Then they could watch the Navy blow the palace to pieces, rebel leaders and all.
Simple. They just had to get through the defence line first, a line that had claimed the lives of fourteen hundred men in two weeks.
Jonas’s remaining platoon members were crammed onto the deck. From the three full infantry squads, command group and fire support team – forty-one men all told – he had arrived on Gullen with, he had twenty-one soldiers left. Of the twenty casualties, twelve were fatalities. The survivors leaned on the armoured wall around the deck, caught halfway between resentment at having been volunteered for first wave duty, and gratefulness for doing it from the back of a giant war machine. They were tattered, cold, wet and dirty. Several of them had been gifted with sawing coughs. Jonas tried to ignore the accusing stares of the resentful ones.
‘A good day for victory.’ Commissar Suliban stood by one of the two passenger-operated heavy stubbers, his black and white uniform spotless.
‘We need to finish this today,’ said Jonas. The commissar took that as agreement and nodded.
‘This warzone delays us. We are needed elsewhe
re. It is a time of brushfire wars, traitors everywhere. It is our duty to make sure the Emperor’s rule is not overthrown as the crusading forces strive to bring more planets into the glory of the Emperor’s light.’
You can blame the crusaders for our troubles, thought Jonas, dragging over half the military assets of the sector with them on their crusade and milking a thousand systems dry to supply it. This he did not voice.
‘Indeed,’ he said instead.
Jonas noted that Carius Killek had commandeered the heavy stubber for his own personal use, probably because of the big shield it had attached to the front. He glared evilly at anyone who came too close. A born survivor, that one.
Suliban turned to him suddenly. ‘I sense some discord between us. You don’t agree with the rebels’ sentiment, do you?’
‘Are you seeking to entrap me, sir?’
‘If I thought that were the case, you would not be here. If you were to rebel, you would have done so long since.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘I desire to hear your opinion.’
‘My opinion does not matter, commissar. The galaxy is as it is. Whether I think the High Lords are right or wrong is irrelevant. How could I possibly put myself in their position? They govern trillions of lives; I command barely twenty. What they do is as beyond me as calling upon a sun not to rise. I follow my orders, as must we all, for the greater glory of the Emperor.’
‘That is the correct answer,’ said Suliban.
‘So you do seek to entrap me, sir.’
Suliban snorted and turned back to looking over the vehicle parapet. Taking this as a sign the commissar had finished with him, Jonas climbed a firing step so he could look over the roof of the command deck to the front. One of the crew sat on the lip of the hatch, looking toward the berm. He acknowledged Jonas wordlessly.
The Atlas engineering tanks were done and withdrew. A gap one hundred metres wide had been dug from the berm. It was not a subtle manoeuvre, and had taken the best part of fifteen hours. The enemy would have noticed the activity some time ago, but Jonas supposed that didn’t matter. The armour on the front of the Stormlords was formidable. He took out his magnoculars, ratcheted up the magnification to maximum, and scanned the gap. The picture fizzed. Water must have got into them again.
‘Basdacks,’ he said.
The bunker his men had destroyed had been repaired during the night. The entire line had been patched. How could they have managed it?
‘Prepare your men, lieutenant, we’re moving out shortly,’ said Parrigar, talking through his short-range vox headset. The crewman in the hatch waved his hand around in a circle, looked to the other two tanks, then climbed inside, clanging the hatch closed after him.
‘Affirmative,’ replied Jonas. He re-settled his cap on his head, and checked his weapons. ‘Prepare, men.’
Bosarain unfurled their flag.
There was an almighty roar. The Righteous Vengeance’s engine turned over under their feet. Black smoke belched from the exhaust stacks. The engines pulsed a second, then a third time, before settling into a growling rhythm, the smoke from the pipes turning blue-white. The tank shook. Bosarain looked down nervously.
‘Sir, the engine is directly under our feet!’ shouted Bosarain. ‘What happens if that goes up?’
‘I’d not think about it if I were you, ensign,’ said Jonas.
The Stormlord lurched, and began to move forward. Jonas climbed down from the firing step, taking refuge with the rest of his men behind the superstructure of the command deck.
‘To the parapet! We’re going in!’ he shouted.
His men were already moving, lasguns out and resting on the plasteel walls of the fighting deck.
The attack had commenced.
The artillery kept up as the 477th Paragon Foot and the Eighth Paragon Superheavy Tank Company advanced, seeking to pin the enemy in position for as long as possible. The ground trembled from the combined shock of the approaching tanks and the bombardment. The Stormlords moved slowly, just faster than a brisk walking pace. The men of the 477th followed, sheltering behind the giant vehicles. The Eighth drew no fire to begin with, then they were over the low hump left by the removal of the berm’s central section and that changed.
Incoming fire blazed in intensely and suddenly, the air filled with a storm of focussed light and shards of metal. Plumes of mud were raised from the soaking earth. Shrapnel pinged off the parapet, water and sod rained down on Jonas’s platoon. Killek rattled off a brief burst from the leftmost stubber, cutting it dead when he realised he was out of range.
There was a bang of superheated air. The glaring ruby beam of a lascannon scored a bright line of molten metal into the armour of Righteous Fury’s left track guard. One of Jonas’s men shrieked and put his hand to his face as a gobbet of melted plasteel scorched his cheek.
Through his vox set Jonas heard Parrigar. ‘Take that heavy weapons team down! Primary weapon, open fire on my mark, three, two…’
The tank lurched as it turned ten degrees to the right, and the men tottered, grabbing for the straps set into the parapet’s sides. A deep thrum joined the rumble of the engines, changing the vibrations in the deck of the fighting platform, as the Vulcan mega-bolter’s twin barrel assemblages began to rotate. The thrum turned to a whine as the barrels accelerated to firing speed.
‘One!’
The mega-bolter was a terrifying wall of noise, so loud that Jonas’s ears rang painfully. Heavy bolter-calibre rounds shot from the multiple barrels, and the front of the tank lit up like a victory fireworks display as the bolts’ flight charges ignited, sending them screaming at the enemy. Jonas risked his neck taking a peek over the foredeck to see a section of defence line reduced to a cloud of rockcrete dust, explosions all over it as the bolts buried themselves in the defences and detonated. The fate of the lascannon teams sheltering behind it was invisible, but final. No more heavy fire troubled Righteous Vengeance from that quarter.
The tanks picked up speed as they headed down the slight slope from the siege line to the bog in front of the Palatine Redoubt’s outer defences.
If the rebels hoped the tanks would be snared by the bog, they were surely disappointed.
The Stormlords plunged into the morass without slowing, their noses dipping low and exposing the fighting deck to incoming fire for one terrifying second. Then they were in, slipping into the muck like groxes taking to water. The vehicles’ wide tracks churned the bog to froth. The great machines sank up to the bases of their sponsons, so deep Jonas thought they would disappear under the reeds and filth, but they did not. Tracks hit the firmer substrate beneath hard enough to shake his bones in his flesh. Then they were moving forward, ungainly ships sailing in a sea of mud. Fountains of dirty water whooshed skywards in front of them. They were approaching the barrage zone.
Again, the terrible rattle of the mega-bolter. Incoming fire slackened, then picked up again, the ‘tunk-tunk-tunk’ of shells hitting home on the armour of the Stormlord as an enemy autocannon tracked across the front. A wave of dirt slopped into the fighting deck as another shell detonated. There was a garble of words in Jonas’s ear.
‘Artillery! Cease fire. Cease fire!’
The explosions grew fewer and closer, the work of the enemy, not their own side.
The bog shallowed, and they came between the outermost points of two limbs of the defence line. Enfilading fire hammered in from both sides. The Stormlord’s lascannon sponson turrets swivelled outward, their beams searing themselves into Jonas’s vision as they responded. He blinked hard at the retinal after-images.
‘Platoon six. Return fire!’ he roared.
His men’s lasguns were toys in comparison to the armament of the tank, but they made the enemy keep their heads down behind their walls, and the heavy stubbers mounted on the Stormlord’s sides helped.
Jonas drew his own pist
ol and looked behind. The first wave of Chimeras were plunging into the bog in the wake of the superheavies. One took a direct hit and burst apart, its metal skin inadequate to the task of holding in the explosion birthing inside it. The turret came free, and the burning hull flipped over and sank into the bog. No one got out.
Jonas said a quick prayer for the men who had perished, thinking that it could so easily have been him.
The Stormlords rose out of the bog, water streaming from their sides.
‘We are approaching the defence line,’ Parrigar shouted over the vox. ‘All passengers brace!’
‘Brace, brace, brace!’ yelled Jonas. ‘Brace, brace, brace!’
His men hastily shouldered their weapons and hung on to the straps for grim death. The Righteous Vengeance hit a section of wall. It reared up as its tracks bit into the rockcrete. The sheer weight and momentum of the tank caused the section to come off its mounting and shift backwards underneath squealing tracks. The tank pitched to the left. Jonas’s men were shaken from the straps and sent falling all over the fighting compartment. Then the tank was steady again, rearing high. Jonas saw the rear of the enemy lines, rebels running directionless and scared as the metal beast breached their walls; a brief glimpse. Righteous Fury’s climb reached its zenith, and it plunged forward hard. Jonas’s teeth clacked painfully together. He tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.
‘To the walls, to the walls!’ he shouted. The sides of the tank were exposed.
His men scrambled into position, their weapons now proving their worth. Screams rose high and shrill as the tank’s heavy flamers turned broad swathes of the rear lines into a promethium inferno. One of his men went down, clutching at his throat, another wept on the floor, cradling a shattering hand. It was pandemonium, weapons fire coming in from all sides, men running at the Righteous Fury, and all the time the awful roar of the mega-bolter. Enemy vehicles raced over the flat from the palace to reinforce the redoubt, only to be torn to metal shreds by the mega-bolter’s phenomenal rate of fire.