by Guy Haley
Jonas stood with his men, loosing shot after shot from his laspistol, the weapon growing uncomfortably hot in his hand. He scored a direct hit, his victim dropping without performance. One second alive, the next dead. A man like himself, wearing a uniform not unlike his own. These were no foul xenos, nor were there unclean icons or fetishes in evidence. These were desperate men, calling out in pain to those who ruled them, asking to be bled a little less hard.
Jonas pushed the doubts from his mind. It was not his place to question.
‘Incoming!’ shouted Bosarain. ‘Enemy anti-tank, nine o’clock!’
A squad of well-armed and armoured rebels were running toward the Saint Josef driving out fifty metres from Righteous Vengeance’s left. They paced the vehicle, ducking under the sightlines of passengers and keeping from the fire arcs of the sponson flamers.
‘Make sure we are not also marked.’ Jonas pointed to Killek, Lorigar, Jenilek and Corden. They nodded, and leaned out over the power plant to gain better vantage. Lorigar was instantly shot down. The other two wavered, but Commissar Suliban was suddenly beside them, standing tall, bolt pistol in hand, and they took heart.
‘Honoured captain? Honoured captain?’ Jonas shouted over the vox, but could not make himself heard, that or Parrigar was not heeding him. He had to deal with this on his own.
‘Squad three, take them down. Don’t let them close with the other tank!’ he ordered.
Ruby stabs of light streaked the smoke-choked air. Killek’s stubber clattered angrily. Three of the anti-tank squad fell. Not enough. They reached for their grenades.
‘They’re going for the passengers! Take them down! Take them down!’ Jonas’s voice became shrill. Bindarian’s men were in the other tank.
Two more of the anti-tank squad fell, but too late. Four grenades were sent up in steep parabolas over the parapet of Saint Josef’s fighting deck. Jonas thought he heard shouts of alarm over battle’s tumult, but he could not be sure.
Body parts were lofted high into the air as the grenades detonated. Blood ran from the drainage gutters along the tank’s sides. Firing from the passenger compartment ceased. Screams took its place.
The Saint Josef rumbled on, oblivious.
‘Sir!’
Bosarain pointed. They were nearing the anti-air battery, two squadrons of three Hydras, hunkered down behind banks of earth close by the feet of the Palatine Redoubt. A small network of rockcrete-lined trenches joined directly to the redoubt protected them. Heavy bolter nests were emplaced near each end, sandbags heaped high all along the trenches’ length. The Hydra’s gun platforms were only just visible over the top.
As if sensing their intrusion, the defence laser fired into the sky. The noise of its rapidly expanding air column was deafening.
The Hydra crews pointed, waving urgently. The quad barrels of each gun dipped toward the oncoming tanks.
Before they could fire, the Righteous Vengeance spoke. The Hydras were well dug in, but the Vulcan threw out such a volume of fire they were not safe. One stopped dead, the remains of its crew hanging like tattered rags from its machinery, another’s gun was battered into scrap.
‘Everyone down!’ yelled Jonas.
The remaining four Hydras opened fire. Their explosive shells hammered into the three Stormlords. Heat washed over Jonas. Explosions drowned out all other sounds. Shrapnel rained over them all. The Righteous Fury drove on, guns blazing, ripping a further two of the guns apart. They were now hard by the edge of the trench network.
The klaxon blared once.
‘Deploy! Deploy! Deploy!’ he shouted, waving his men over to the access ladders. Righteous Fury ground around, trying to keep the men in its lee and maintain line of sight on the Hydra battery.
Jonas went down with the first of his men. He ordered them to spread out with rapid hand signals, keeping his command squad by his side. Seventeen men were all he had left in fighting condition. He sent the remnants of his heavy support to shelter by a pile of toppled sandbags, the agglomerated remnants of his infantry squads he directed towards a shell hole. His men threw themselves into position. Jenilek, running with the ad-hoc infantry squad, took a bolt in the chest and fell down. Jonas’s last surviving sergeant, Keslo, stooped as he ran by and did not stop. Jenilek must have been dead.
Jonas would not have thought it possible, but out of the tank the battle was worse. The ground was churned up, body parts and blood mixed in freely with the mud. Some sort of mesh had been laid over the top of the ground to make it easier to traverse, but this had been ripped up and now served only as a trip hazard.
Jonas threw himself behind a lump of smoking rubble and took stock, his command squad and Suliban by his side. He checked his men. Bosarain was missing. He looked out to the tank driving away from them.
A voice on the vox, wracked with pain. Bosarain. ‘Sir… injured…’
‘Wait here!’ Jonas shouted, and took off.
He ran across the broken ground, bent double, the air crackling with las-fire coming in from the bastion above. Away to his right, the War Forged had taken a hit and thrown a track. Unable to turn, it could not bring its mega-bolter to bear on the swarm of men approaching from the rear. The 14th platoon fought a desperate battle there, seeking to repel those who would destroy it, even as they were raked with fire from the bastion.
Jonas found Bosarain lying in a crater in the ground near to where they had deployed. Righteous Fury had rumbled onward now that its cargo had been released, laying down suppressive fire to the rear of the enemy’s lines.
‘Ensign!’
To Jonas’s relief, the ensign answered him
‘Sir? Sorry sir, got a little snagged.’
The ensign gestured to his foot. An ugly piece of ground mesh had embedded itself in the man’s ankle. Blood oozed through the cloth of his trousers.
‘I’ll get you out of this, here, cover me.’ Jonas thrust his laspistol into the ensign’s hands and knelt by his tangled foot.
Jonas flinched as a stray las-bolt burned through the air close by. He could see no way of removing Bosarain from the mesh easily.
‘This is going to hurt. I’m sorry.’
Bosarain bit his lip and nodded.
Jonas grabbed the mesh and pulled at it hard. It was springy, and took two agonising tugs to get free. Bosarain choked back a scream.
‘I doubt you can walk. Lean on me.’
He scooped the ensign’s arm around his neck and hauled him upright.
‘Wait! The flag, the platoon flag.’ Bosarain pointed. The banner was on the ground, folded in half and smeared with mud. Jonas leaned forward so that Bosarain could reach out and pluck it out of the muck.
‘Come on!’
They returned to the rest of the platoon at a hobbled run. The men were hunkered down in their shell holes and the battlefield debris Jonas had directed them to, taking pot shots at whoever strayed into sight.
Suliban stood there, one hand behind his back, unconcerned by the bullets and las-beams flying around him, boltgun held in the other outstretched hand, the muzzle pointed directly at Jonas.
‘I can’t leave my standard bearer and platoon flag behind,’ panted Jonas. ‘I’d not stand the dishonour.’ Medic Coass Lo Turneric took Bosarain from the lieutenant, and propped him up against a lump of rockcrete.
‘It was as I thought. You returned,’ said Suliban.
‘Why the gun?’ asked Jonas, gesturing at the bolt pistol in the commissar’s hand.
‘In case I was wrong.’ The commissar holstered his weapon.
‘Are you ever wrong?’
‘No. This is why I did not shoot you.’
Jonas’s platoon worked themselves round until they were close in behind the Hydra emplacements. The raised banks that protected the remaining tanks kept the attacking Imperial Guard safe from harm. Now they were off the tank, they d
id not have to worry about the quad-gun’s firepower. They did have to worry about the two heavy bolter nests protecting the emplacement, however, and the firing slits in the bastion above. Fortunately, the defenders of the fortress seemed to be occupied with the immobilised War Forged.
He had his men trot from cover to cover to get to the side of the position. The Righteous Fury had moved off, mowing down any who approached and keeping the area from being reinforced, while the men aboard the War Forged also kept attention off Jonas’s depleted command from attacks at ground level.
They sheltered in a cracked bunker that had been hit by the mega-bolter. They ignored the pulped flesh, all that remained of the previous occupants, as best they could and scoped out the Hydra emplacement. The sound of fighting had intensified in two spots – around the War Forged and back towards the forward defence line where they had broken through.
‘Looks like they’re getting caught up at the bridgehead,’ said Micz. ‘We’ve been left hung out to dry.’
Jonas looked up out of the vision slit of the bunker, then out of the door facing the Palatine Redoubt. ‘No, we’ve been given an opportunity. As soon as we get those Hydras down, the glory hogs will swoop in, disable that weapon and this whole war will be over. We can either hang around here and wait for the battle to go one way or another, or we can play our part in bringing it to a conclusion right now.’
His men looked back at him, smeared in blood and soot. He did not need their agreement, but sought it anyway. They nodded.
Jonas had Bosarain wait in the bunker with the medic, and placed his last three heavy weapons troopers on the roof of the bunker. He divided the remainder of his men into two groups; both of six, the second to be led by the commissar. He waited for the second group to reach the other end of the trench line before he ordered the missile team on the roof to open fire.
The missile team revealed itself long enough to launch a fragmentation round into the heavy bolter pit at the near end of the Hydra emplacement line. It didn’t matter if they killed the crew, just as long as they kept their heads down. Suliban nodded at Jonas, and led half of the men off toward the other end of the trench system. Jonas waited for them to get going.
‘Now!’ Jonas shouted. He, the remains of his command squad and half the rest of his men, ran over the open ground toward the bolter nest. His remaining missile team kept up a respectable amount of fire. Lasgun fire streaked at them, bringing Trooper Stann down, but there were thankfully no bolts. His own weapons team had succeeded in keeping the bolter crew pinned. He vaulted the low wall, landing in the trench behind, and shot a rebel in the chest. He drew his sword. They were in.
They worked along the trench line embracing the Hydras, sheltered to some extent from the outside battle. Jonas waved a fire team of three men forward to the next junction. He, Micz and Tabor, carrying Bosarain’s banner as well as the long range vox set, ran after, taking the next point. Killek and Sergeant Keslo swept the line behind them, bayoneting the dead and throwing grenades into dugouts, work that Keslo had much experience in, and Killek a certain inborn flair. They reached the first bolter pit. Jonas took a deep breath and threw himself into the round, sandbagged emplacement. One of the two crew was dead, killed by the frag missile. The other raised a pistol in a shaking hand. Jonas shot him without hesitation.
‘Clear!’
The network was lightly manned. They encountered groups of three enemy at the most. Weapons fire and shouting came from the far end of the network, his other Guardsmen, led by Suliban, working their way towards them.
Jonas’s men shot a fleeing soldier as he threw down his lasgun. They reached a point where the trench went up five steps, to where the Hydras were situated.
Smoke billowed from one of the two tanks wrecked by Righteous Vengeance’s assault. The smell of burned meat tainted the air.
They ran bowed over to the first wreck.
‘This is too quiet,’ Jonas said.
‘Four still operational, sir. No crew that I can see, though,’ said Micz.
Jonas checked the ground. ‘They all need to go. Into your teams, take them one at a time, but be careful.’ He sent Sergeant Keslo back to cover the trench exit. The rest split into two groups, one comprising Tabor, Micz and Jonas himself, the other Killek and Corden. Tabor brought the platoon flag.
Sure enough, as soon as Jonas’s group attempted to cross the gap from the first wreck to the next, they came under heavy fire. He caught sight of a fresh barricade close by the foot of the Palatine Redoubt, strung between two of the flak tanks.
‘Basdacks were waiting for us,’ said Tabor.
‘Not like we made a quiet entrance, is it?’ said Jonas. ‘We’ve got movement up in the redoubt too.’
He signalled with his hand to Killek and Corden, lurking behind the crewless Hydra. They planted charges on the gun’s platform and ran off around the far side. Jonas needed to outflank the barricade. He crept slowly forward, only to come under fire from a second position.
‘Dammit! Up in the redoubt. They’ve spotted us.’
Tabor opened up the vox. ‘Platoon six, this is platoon six, we are pinned down, request immediate assistance…’
The sound of fighting came from the rear. ‘They’re coming up through the trenches, sir!’ said Micz.
Jonas lay there a second, undecided. ‘Let’s hope Sergeant Keslo can keep them occupied. He has a good position. Vox back to the bunker. Get the missile squad to throw down suppression to the trench mouth, stop any more getting in.’
‘The Stormlord might have bought it, sir,’ said Micz. ‘They were doing a good job of keeping the enemy back, I can’t see anyone getting through if it was still there.’
‘Not part of our game right now,’ said Jonas. ‘Let’s go. Come on, we can work our way around to the back of the barricade and hope that Commissar Suliban can get past the other bolter nest and support us.’
The three ran, las-fire singeing them from above. Micz lobbed a grenade without breaking stride. It sailed over the wrecked Hydra they’d just vacated, towards the barricade.
‘Throne! This is no use,’ shouted Tabor.
Gunfire intensified. They were forced back into the lee of a sandbag wall. The smell of fused sand wafted hot from the other side as las-beams belted into it. Jonas wondered how long it would hold before it disintegrated. They dared a couple of shots up, aiming for the slit in the redoubt wall that now glittered with laser light. Tabor took a round through the face on his second try. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Micz grabbed at his friend’s shoulder. ‘Dead! We’re trapped!’ said Micz.
A mechanical roar answered Micz’s cry. The Stormlord rolled over the trench line as if it wasn’t there, crushing sandbags and rockcrete flat. Its great height blocked them from the slit. Jonas grabbed Micz’s shoulder. ‘Come on!’ he said, snatching up the fallen banner.
They ran furiously to the side of Righteous Vengeance and clambered up into the fighting deck. The tank was firing into the remaining Hydras, ripping them apart with its mega-bolter, grinding round in a slow circle to bring each into range. Explosions rocked the ground. Jonas and Micz threw themselves from the top of the ladder and rolled through the dirt and the blood of the fighting deck. Too late, the rebels in the redoubt realised that they had moved to the top of the vehicle. They flung themselves either side of the slit. In a second the rotation of the tank would take them away from the redoubt and leave them exposed. A second was all they needed.
‘Flame these basdacks, trooper.’
‘With pleasure, sir,’ said Micz grimly.
Micz thrust his flamer nozzle into the slit and squeezed the trigger. Screams and fire burst outwards. Micz and Jonas saved themselves from falling just in time, leaping back as the tank moved away from the redoubt’s soaring walls. There were three more slits at their height. They watched them warily, but no more fire issued
forth.
Jonas risked a look over the superstructure. Commissar Suliban and his team had made it to the barricade. It looked like he’d lost one man, but at this distance Jonas couldn’t tell who. Most of the enemy were dead. A few were fleeing. He saw no sign of Corden, but Killek ran about, smeared in blood and roaring like a maniac, clubbing at running rebels with his lasrifle butt. Suliban stood over a pleading rebel soldier, his bolt pistol out. Jonas turned away before Suliban executed him.
The Hydras blazed, rounds cooking off in the fires. The sound of fighting was intensifying; through the smoke he could see the rebels falling back from the defence line, chased by Chimeras and running Paragonians. Outside the Hydra emplacement, Saint Josef circled back toward the War Forged. It opened up, driving off the remaining enemy troops trying to take the damaged superheavy. From the passenger compartment of War Forged, Jonas heard a ragged cheer.
Gripping his bloodstained platoon standard in shaking hands, Jonas held it high and let the rainy wind carry it tight. He keyed his short-range vox to speak, hoping that someone was close enough to relay his message over the wider net.
‘This is Lieutenant Jonas Vor Artem Lo Bannick. The enemy Hydras are destroyed, repeat, the way is open.’
Five heartbeats later, he received an answer, blurred by relay. ‘Acknowledged lieutenant, Glorious Wrath inbound.’
Almost immediately, a trio of specks rose into the air back over their camp six kilometres away. They grew rapidly as they cleared the siege line berm. Engines screeching, they swooped over the rout of the Gullen rebels, dodging sporadic fire from the Palatine Redoubt. They swung upward rapidly through the drizzle and the smoke. A bang, and one veered sharply away, smoke billowing from a wrecked engine. The other two were lost to sight as they soared over the top of the redoubt. Shortly afterwards, explosions and the racket of a close-ranged firefight drifted down from above.
The defence laser fired one last time, its rumble rolling out across the boggy plains about the palace, before falling silent for good. A few more seconds passed. The klaxon of Righteous Vengeance sounded twice. The vox burst into life.