The worst moments were in fact those closest to the door. He could imagine reaching the postern gate and the barbaric horde coming back to their brutal senses. Forcing the lock quietly with the flat of his blade, Krieg stepped out into the deserted avenue and closed the door steadily behind him. Resting his back against it he slid to the dirt, the nervous tension evaporating from his body with such collective force that the relief made him feel light-headed and weak. Sitting in the road he didn’t know what scared him more: the fact that the convoy had left him behind in enemy-held territory or the possibility that each of the gargantuan storehouses that surrounded him and the mighty cathedra beyond held a sizeable warband of battle-seasoned greenskins.
Getting to his feet Krieg started to jog in the direction of the Mortis Maximus. Deleval’s fast moving column would have to rendezvous with Mortensen’s Redemption Corps in order to move out the Titan crew and if he could move fast enough, that was Krieg’s best bet. Either way, the commissar had to reach a vox-link: the 364th Volscian Shadow Brigade were being drawn into an insidious trap of monumental proportions and that warehouse was a target begging for an Imperial air strike. He could only hope that he’d make it in time.
IX
Vertigo soared above the street-level maelstrom. For the past half an hour Rosenkrantz had been doing her best to keep the Spectre firmly in the air, where it belonged, rather than down in the Illian melting pot where the aircraft seemed to want to take her. Chief Nauls had reported smoke trailing from the tail and the pilot herself had detected vibration in the pedals. Vertigo seemed to be holding her own, however, and while the Spectre seemed content to remain airborne, Rosenkrantz was obliged to remain on station above the rendezvous.
The evacuation point was actually a small landing strip west of Artellus. It had presumably been used for important personages and senior adepts, visiting the great cathedra. Burnt-out wrecks of lighters, shuttles and the occasional Aquila lander littered the runway but there was enough room to put down the Spectres, their bay doors gaping open and ready to take on board the returning convoy vehicles. Blazer Four, Five and Six buzzed around the evacuation point, occasionally ripping into surrounding buildings with their multi-lasers as pockets of encroaching insurgents were identified. By and large the reconnaissance data had been good and the rendezvous was secure.
Nauls broke through on the vox: he had more news for her.
“Chief?”
“Skip, we’re seeing some unusual enemy movement to the south-east. Might want to check it out.”
“What do you mean, unusual?” Captain Rask broke in.
“Doesn’t look like mob activity,” the crew chief drawled. “They, well, sir, they look like troops and manoeuvres to me.”
Rosenkrantz leaned the Spectre into a half-turn. Rask checked his strategic data-slates while Sass pushed in past Benedict to get a better look through the canopy.
“He’s right: they’re in formations,” the adjutant confirmed.
“It’s probably the Volscians,” Rask countered, but his data-slates weren’t providing much in the way of evidence for that.
“There’s no way they made progress like that.”
“Maybe there was less resistance than anticipated,” the captain hypothesised.
“What, with the flak we’ve been catching?” Sass put to him. “No way.”
Rask tried to get a better view for himself.
“Give me a fly-by,” the captain finally directed.
“Are you out of your mind?” was the only response the pilot could conjure.
“If those are enemy troops down there, the major will need to know.”
Sass nodded. “They could cut off the convoy; crush the hold points.”
Rosenkrantz shook her helmet from side to side. “Benedict, I’m going to need more starboard thrust to offset the deviation.”
“Affirmative,” Benedict complied, “Recalibrating for a high speed pass.”
Plunging nose first towards the urban anarchy she’d been so eager to avoid, Rosenkrantz pushed Vertigo as much as she dared. The distant jigsaw puzzle of alleys and freightways came up fast and she levelled the Spectre out at a rooftop streak, rocking to starboard and port to avoid various antennae and watchtowers. Ground to air small arms fire followed in their superheated wake, too sluggish to acquire the aircraft at such thunderbolt speeds.
Banking slightly to give the best view of the industrial metropolis below, Rosenkrantz and the corpsman watched as empty avenues turned to rivers of green. Heavily-armed ork warriors, all muscle, spikes and jumbo weaponry, were bounding down the streets. Bikes and buggies belching oily smoke and noise weaved in and out of the charging throng, tearing up the sand freightways with spiked tyres and suicidal acceleration. Capillary columns of troops stomped out of surrounding warehouses and stores, bolstering the already thick channels of alien ferocity converging on the cathedra.
Rosenkrantz brought the Spectre up off the deck and back into the open sky. She turned to face Rask.
“Take us back,” he told her simply. “Benedict, patch me through the major. Now.
X
As a legionnaire Krieg had done plenty of running; the physical standards required to join an Inquisitorial storm-trooper detachment were tougher still. As a young officer he’d increasingly gotten used to giving orders, rather than the physical reality of actually carrying them out. As an Imperial commissar he’d expected to do even less. It should have been unsurprising, therefore, that his body took to the rude awakening of a long distance slog with less enthusiasm than expected.
Unarmed and abandoned, all the cadet-commissar had was his legs: two lifeless appendages sending constant and insistent updates to his brain amounting to little more than biological begging. The numb burn of each thigh and calf was unbearable and sent shock-waves of pain with each stumbling footfall through his already bruised and blasted torso. His lungs felt shallow and his reinforced greatcoat, now more in demand than ever amongst the chasing las-fire pitched at his racing form, felt like he was dragging a Chimera behind him.
The cathedra grew and the booming roar of the Valkyries hovering somewhere overhead became clearer. The pulse-snap of laser bolts sang in the air as Krieg stomp-jogged his exhausted carcass under the sights of Second Platoon manning the southern rooftop hold point. They weren’t firing, which occurred to Krieg’s adrenaline-addled brain as a good thing. It would simply be embarrassing to have been shot by his own troops twice in one day.
The convoy formed a ragged line in front of the colossal feet of the mighty Mortis Maximus, the combination of Warlord Titan and the Adeptus Mechanicus cathedra blotting out the sun. The deep shadow stung the blistering, sweaty skin of his face with sudden coolness. A mixture of storm-troopers and Fourth Platoon crouched in between the vehicles, weapons ready for any rebels that slipped through the Shadow Brigade’s elevated hold points. Gunners swung their assault cannons round over the heads of a cluster of soldiers in discussion half way down the column.
Krieg’s staggering attempt at a run collapsed into an unsteady walk as he leaned against the open back door of the rearguard Centaur, trying to find his breath. A storm-trooper in a headband with a bootless, bandaged foot gave him a curious look. A stretcher was loaded into the back alongside him bearing a more composed-looking Opech. The sniper had clearly received some much needed morphia and he gave Krieg a warm glance. The cadet-commissar patted the sniper’s leg lightly, but didn’t have the air for any kind of further conversation and stumbled on down the column. His bedraggled appearance drew further surprised looks from the convoy sentries and the huddle of Guardsmen simply fell silent upon his arrival: some with surprise, some with suspicion.
Corporal Vedette managed one of her crisp Mordian salutes, whilst the man-mountain Preed simply nodded to himself grimly. The three sergeants, Bronstead, Minghella and the dagger-faced Conklin began to break away: most notably the master sergeant and the bull-necked Bronstead, who were drifting towards Steel Sanctuary. By coi
ncidence this was exactly where the ragged commissar was going.
Krieg tore the rear door open, revealing a small congregation of Guardsmen inside. Deleval was seated next to the driver, his face fast becoming a nest of infuriated creases. Snyder and Goinz rested up front, passing a canteen between themselves and the lieutenant and lighting up lho-sticks. Turkle sat with his back to the door and the barrel of his pump action aimed lazily across one knee at Golliant and Sarakota, who had been disarmed, and were seated on the other side of the Centaur.
The commissar yanked his hellpistol from where it sat snugly in Turkle’s holster, the power pack still attached to the henchman’s belt. Krieg put the muzzle straight to the back of the hiver’s skull, just behind the ear.
“When you’ve got the shot, you better take it,” Krieg hissed and squeezed the trigger. The superheated blast filled the troop compartment and sent brains and fragments of skull across the stupefied Snyder and a still grinning Goinz. “Good advice,” the commissar told them and leaned in across Turkle’s headless corpse for his next shot.
Deleval leaned away, despite the fact that the pistol had clearly moved to Snyder and Goinz.
“Don’t do it,” Bronstead growled, his hand hovering over his own laspistol, but Vedette reached out for his wrist.
“He’s an Imperial commissar,” she reminded the Volscian sergeant.
“A commissar’s word is law,” Preed agreed unhappily.
“He ain’t no commissar, yet,” Bronstead reminded them, shrugging the Mordian off, and put his hand on the bolstered laspistol.
Krieg swapped hands and extended his right fist towards the bridling hive sergeant: Udeskee’s signet ring glittered in the dull light. “These men have been found wanting,” he announced darkly.
“It’s a lot worse than that,” a voice cut across the tense air. Major Mortensen stood behind them. One hand covered three ugly gashes that had opened up his carapace body armour at the belly and made the front of his fatigues sodden and slick with blood. “Commissar Krieg here holds the life of every man committed to this operation, wanting or not, in that righteous fist.”
Vedette ran to the major’s side, swiftly followed by Minghella. The commissar’s pistol wavered.
“You were right, Krieg,” Mortensen continued. “I was wrong. It’s a cult. The rebels have alien allies. We’ve stirred up a stingwings’ nest here and sprung a trap that was waiting for the main body pacification force. If we don’t go now, we’re all dead. So make up your mind. Shoot them. Don’t shoot them. Either way, I have to get my men off this dirtball.”
Precious seconds came and went.
Krieg finally let the fatigue take him and lowered the hellpistol.
Mortensen immediately began to bark orders: “Kynt, get back to Captain Rask. Have the Vectors come down to street level and have Second Platoon extracted from the rooftops. It’s risky, but we don’t have the time or space for anything else. As soon as they’re loaded, send them across to the evacuation point with Blazer One and Three. We can’t afford another bird to come down in this mess.” He turned to find a bitter Bronstead standing nearby. “Likewise, sergeant,” Mortensen added with an edge and the fuming Volscian stomped away.
“Titan crew loaded on the convoy. No losses,” Vedette informed him crisply as Minghella tried to examine the major’s wound. “Teague?”
Mortensen shook his head.
Lieutenant Deleval had climbed out of his vehicle and approached the pair. Turkle’s blood still dripped from his flak jacket. He flicked his head at Krieg.
“You gonna let that slide?” Deleval challenged: soldier to soldier, eyes aflame.
Mortensen cast a glance over the bedraggled, scattershot ridden cadet. He ignored Deleval and directed his orders at Vedette.
“Have the troopers climb into the Centaurs with Fourth Platoon.”
“They’re already carrying the Titan crew and Thunder’s boys,” the Shadow Brigade officer snarled.
“Our men could walk out and provide security for the vehicles,” Vedette offered. Again, the major shook his head. He had a soft spot for Vedette, probably more than he cared to admit: Conklin’s replacement-in-waiting.
“Throne’s balls, I don’t care how cramped it is—get them in. Any man left behind is a dead man. Trust me.”
The Mordian shot off without further question to organise the sentries, followed by Preed and finally Deleval, who glowered at Mortensen and then pushed past Krieg’s battered shoulder. The commissar didn’t have the energy to push back and simply let the hiver bulldoze his way through.
“You can do that in transit,” the major told Minghella irritably. The medic was already pulling counterseptic spray from his medicae satchel and fussing with the shredded carapace. Uncle helped Mortensen to the rear of the forward Centaur, with Krieg reattaching the hellpistol’s power pack to his belt and coming up behind.
“Zane, who the hell are we running from?” Minghella asked, ignoring Mortensen’s request and attempting to stifle the major’s bleeding.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Mortensen answered with clear confidence.
“I believe I would,” Krieg muttered moodily to himself.
XI
It was breathtaking to watch from the sky. Rosenkrantz couldn’t imagine the pure unadulterated madness it would be on the ground. Back on station, high above the airstrip, Vertigo had the best seats in the house. Rask and Sass sat at the rear of the cockpit, their hearts in their throats as they all watched the Redemption Corps convoy hurtle up the winding freightways, throwing up thick plumes of fine sand and dust behind them.
Every few moments the captain would give another solemn navigational instruction, taking the vehicles one block further out of reach. Like a slippery eel narrowly escaping the closing jaws of some waterborne super predator, the column weaved left and right before accelerating explosively up the straights and away from adjoining streets and alleyways already engulfed by the closing swarm of green carnage.
Closer to the airstrip, the narrow lanes fed into a long stretch of broad freightway, allowing the Shadow Brigade drivers to prove their worth. The open road allowed the super-charged Centaurs the space to make some ground on the storming hordes, the degenerate savages hailing a blizzard of hot lead after them. The ork buggies were less easy to outrun, sharing as they did the same advantages as the fire support vehicles and their drivers on the long stretch up to the airstrip.
The Volscian drivers did their best: ramming scrapheap buggies into the walls of surrounding storage facilities and pulverising dare-devil riders and their bikes under track. The gunners, conversely, did their worst—spraying the gaining greenskin wagons with a torrent of unrelenting fire from their pintle-mounted assault cannons. The patchwork tracks would often simply erupt into flames and roll, causing other fast moving vehicles to smash into them and join the inferno. Looted Mechanicus tractors and carriers were more resilient, however, soaking up the damage with their superior armour, and it was these and a few of the nimbler speed-freak bikers that stayed with the convoy all the way to the airstrip.
Rask had a surprise for them.
Hugging the deck, Blazer Five and Six skirted the dirt track freightway on a collision course for the convoy, with rocket pods armed.
“Take us down,” the captain ordered. “And open the bay door. This is going to be a touchdown pick-up.” Below, the other Spectres waited in similar configuration, their engines idling them a few metres off the rockcrete of the airstrip and their doors open and ready to swallow one of the approaching Centaurs.
Rask turned to Vertigo’s co-pilot: “Benedict, contact Lieutenant Commander Waldemar and transmit our coordinates. Extend our compliments and inform him we’ll be with him shortly. Give the order for the Vectors and remaining Blazers to scramble and begin making their approach.”
“Affirmative, captain.”
Rosenkrantz grunted. She could hardly have expected Mortensen to have been so cordial.
Like
a flock of spooked birds the Valkyries and Vultures took off from the airstrip as the Vertigo descended. Only Blazer Five and Six remained, their rocket run on the convoy almost complete. Lifting a further few metres above the ground, the sleek gun-ships allowed the Centaur carriers to surge beneath them before propelling rocket after rocket into the oncoming ork vehicles. Some of the greenskin drivers had the common sense to brake but many simply blasted on, sure that they could clear the raging ball of pure annihilation the road ahead had become. As the Blazers vanished in the haze bank of dust and swarthy smoke, intent on turning for another run from the rear, the convoy fragmented, each vehicle rocketing across the airstrip for their designated Spectre carrier.
Hitting the ramps at perilous speeds, the Centaurs rolled inside, reversing their tracks and skidding to a full stop. With ramps closing and their freight intact the Spectres blasted skyward, intent on catching the comparatively sprightly Vectors.
Rosenkrantz felt the quake of extra weight in Vertigo’s swollen belly as Mortensen’s Centaur mounted the ramp.
“They’re in, skipper. Ramp closing,” Chief Nauls came over the vox.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Rosenkrantz said and pulled back on the stick.
Vertigo gave a violent shudder before lurching and dropping back to the deck. Rosenkrantz was thrown forward in her seat before being suddenly wrenched back. The cockpit went wild again with klaxons and runescreens mounting an assault on the senses.
“What is it?” Rask yelled above the clamour. “Are we hit?”
“Is it the damage from earlier?” Sass joined in.
Rosenkrantz was finding it difficult enough finding the internal vox-switch in all the cacophony.
[Imperial Guard 08] - Redemption Corps Page 19