[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  “Speculation won’t get us very far,” said Captain Grukov of Third Company. “We need action.” Refusing to meet Major Galipolov’s furious stare, he addressed Colonel Kabanov directly. “What’s to be done, sir?”

  “The decision has been made for us, gentlemen,” said Kabanov. “The Twelfth Army’s tactical council have assessed the situation. I received new orders this afternoon.”

  Colonel Kabanov’s expression told Sebastev he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. The old man’s face betrayed his disgust, as if he’d bitten into a piece of fruit only to find it riddled with Catachan pusworms.

  To Sebastev’s mind, the smart answer was to move companies from the 117th across from Helvarr to engage the rebels at Ohslir. Then flank the enemy on its north side using companies from the 701st at Nhalich. While the orks were engaged with the Thirty-Fifth at Grazzen, the Sixty-Eighth could move up to flank them from the south. If they were lucky, there might be a chance to take the orks out permanently.

  Of course, it would mean abandoning Korris, but, in Sebastev’s opinion, Korris’ only strategic value was as a launching point for Vostroyan assaults on the rebel-held hive-cities in the south-east. Such an action didn’t look likely. The discovery of the Venomhead presence on Danik’s World had brought a swift halt to the Twelfth Army’s original plans.

  The colonel cleared his throat and said, The Sixty-Eighth Infantry Regiment has been ordered to pull back to Nhalich. When we arrive, we’re to join up with the 701st and assist them in readying their defences against a possible siege from the south. Our redeployment is scheduled to begin at first light, two days from now, preparations to start immediately.”

  Redeployment, not retreat: retreat was practically a curse word to many of the Vostroyan Firstborn. Sebastev had never liked it much, but he didn’t try to deceive himself now. It was a retreat. The Twelfth Army had suffered a devastating double blow. They had to consolidate their forces, and that meant pulling back, at least for now. It wasn’t how Sebastev would have fought the war, but at least it made some kind of sense. That was more than he’d expected from Old Hungry and his advisors.

  Major Galipolov, on the other hand, was typically direct in voicing his displeasure. “So we’re to just up and leave?” he asked. “After two years of hard-fought occupation? Does General Vlastan know how many of my men died holding this place? This doesn’t sit well with me, colonel. It doesn’t sit well at all.”

  “Noted, major,” replied Colonel Kabanov.

  Captain Grukov added his voice, saying, “I can’t stomach the idea of just letting the damned greenskins roll right in here. The least we can do is leave a few surprises for them, wouldn’t you say? What’s to stop them following us to Nhalich and attacking at the same time as the Danikkin rebels?”

  Colonel Kabanov frowned. “Now that Barahn has fallen, General Vlastan is betting that the orks will stop crossing the Varanesian Peaks to attack Korris. As a buffer of sorts for our forces at Nhalich, Twelfth Army command has decided that a single company will remain behind in Korris to continue our occupation of the town.” The colonel paused. “Captain Sebastev’s Fifth Company has been selected for this honour.”

  “By the Throne!” exclaimed Grukov. “With respect, sir, you can’t be serious. A single company?”

  “Honour indeed,” said Major Galipolov, banging the table. “It’s a bloody death sentence!”

  Others spoke up, eager to voice their protests. Only the members of the Commissariat and the Cult Mechanicus remained silent, masking their reactions well, if they had any at all.

  Sebastev was unsure what to think or feel. A single company, even his outstanding Fifth Company, might hold off a minor assault if they could stomach the heavy losses, but an ork charge like today’s…

  So, thought Sebastev, the blue bloods have finally made their move. I knew it would come sooner or later.

  Not for the first time, Sebastev wished he’d never made his promise to Dubrin, but his friend had been dying. How could he have done any less than swear, on the Treatis Elatii no less, that he would lead Dubrin’s company to glory and honour? That he would get them through this wasteful mess of a campaign? And, because some men cared about things like lineage and Vostroyan military politics, and Throne knew what else, Sebastev’s whole company had been ordered to hold the line or die.

  The other officers were talking over each other. There was such a cacophony that no single voice could be made out.

  Colonel Kabanov rose to his feet, toppling his chair to the cold, wooden floor. His fists struck the tabletop so hard they cracked it. “Silence, all of you!” he bellowed. “I’m not finished, Throne damn it!”

  The protests stopped dead. Sebastev, Galipolov and the rest of the assembled officers gaped at their leader. His eyes blazed from under his thick, white eyebrows, and he seemed to crackle with power. This was Maksim Kabanov, the formidable White Boar and the most decorated man in the Firstborn Sixty-Eighth, former combat champion in the regimental games, and master exponent of the ossbohk-vyar. One ignored or disrespected him at great risk.

  Colonel Kabanov stared each man in the face, daring him to open his mouth.

  Silence gripped the war room, broken only by the buzzing of the overhead strip lights and the soft humming of the field-cogitator banks by the rear wall.

  “Fifth Company will not be holding Korris alone,” said the colonel through gritted teeth. His eyes settled on Sebastev. “Commissar-Captain Vaughn and Major Galipolov will be taking joint command of our main force during the redeployment.

  “I, Colonel Maksim Kabanov, will be staying to lead Fifth Company.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Day 686

  Korris — 10:39hrs, -17°C

  The town of Korris, half-ruined and abandoned but for the presence of Fifth Company, basked in a wash of rare sunshine. Overhead, the yellow globe of Gamma Kholdas crossed the blue sky in a lazy arc, turning the snowfields that surrounded the town into an endless blinding carpet of white light. Sebastev’s men patrolled the town’s perimeter in pairs, wearing dark goggles to prevent snow-blindness, their booted feet cutting deep channels in the glittering landscape.

  Many of the old buildings were little more than angular piles of black rubble, having collapsed under heavy burdens of snow during the last two millennia of the Danikkin deep winter. Metal beams jutted at all angles from the ruins, turned red with rust, flaking away or crumbling to powder in the frequent gales. The corners of those buildings that remained intact were rounded and smooth, as if sandblasted. Particles of ice driven by gusting winds had scoured away all but the most subtle signs of the decorative carvings that had once graced many of the structures.

  Here and there, the rough outline of an Imperial eagle could still be seen over some of the doorways. The Danikkin had pulled out of Korris at the start of the deep winter, long before the current rebellion had erupted across the planet. No rebel had defaced the Imperial icons, only time.

  Today, the air was still, and visibility was better than it had been for weeks. Fifth Company had moved back from the trenchworks to occupy the town. There were simply too few of them to hold the trenches against any kind of attack. Colonel Kabanov had posted scouts out there to watch the foothills of the Varanesian Peaks for any sign of an ork advance, but so far, Old Hungry’s supposition that the orks would stop crossing the mountains seemed to be holding true.

  Sebastev was far more comfortable with the prospect of fighting in an urban area. The Vostroyan Firstborn were quite probably the finest city fighters in the Imperial Guard. They were bred for it: trained in close quarters combat from a young age, and taught to fight from cover in the rains of the old factorum complexes that dotted so much of their home world. Korris suited Sebastev and his men fine. It almost didn’t matter than Old Hungry had ordered them to remain out here.

  For the last two years, Colonel Kabanov’s home had been the abandoned councillor’s mansion that stood just north of the town’s central market sq
uare. The building had served as regimental headquarters since the arrival of the Sixty-Eighth. It was a natural choice, its superior construction having allowed it to weather the very worst of the winter storms with only minor erosion. The regimental engineers had easily restored the mansion’s interior to a habitable condition, but despite their best efforts, it was still too cold to be called comfortable.

  It was in this building, in Colonel Kabanov’s spacious office, that Sabastev now stood, still dressed in his full winter kit, facing his commanding officer.

  Colonel Kabanov sat behind a broad desk carved from dark Danikkin pine. The surface of the desk was covered with a disorderly arrangement of rolled maps and message scrolls. On either side of him, placed close to offer maximum warmth, two thermal coils hummed softly, casting a red tinge over the colonel’s face that made him look almost healthy.

  “Three days,” grumbled the colonel. “Three days since the regiment departed, and the third day in a row that you’ve come to me to register a formal protest.” He scowled at Sebastev. “Am I to suffer this every day, captain? I’m not logging these protests, you know.”

  “I’ll continue regardless, sir,” said a frowning Sebastev, “at least, until you see sense and ship out.”

  Kabanov shook his head. “By the Golden Throne, you’re stubborn, and insolent too, damn it. That’s Dubrin’s doing. You get more like the old scoundrel every day, Throne bless him.”

  “I thank the colonel for his compliment.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment, blast you,” said Kabanov, but a grin twitched at his moustache nevertheless. “Good old Alexos, eh? Arrogant, proud, cocky. Then again, one might suppose the same is true of all Vostroyans, damn our pride. I’m a victim of it myself, I expect.”

  “Am I to understand from that statement, sir,” said Sebastev stiffly, “that pride is the reason for your insistence on staying here with us?”

  Colonel Kabanov didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted a hand to stall any further questions while he coughed wetly into a handkerchief. Then he folded it, and returned it to his pocket.

  When he’d composed himself, he leaned forward on his desk, stared Sebastev in the eye and said, “I attached myself to Fifth Company because it’s what I wanted to do, captain. I’ve never been in the habit of explaining myself to my subordinates, and I’m not about to start now. I’m your commanding officer, so you’ll just bloody well accept it. Now, let this be an end to it.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. When the colonel spoke again, his tone was less contentious. “In all your time under my command, have I ever done anything to betray the faith my fighters have placed in me? Have I ever put myself above our men? Never, not in all our time serving the Imperium together. Stop these daily protests, captain. If a simple request is not enough, you may take that as a direct order.”

  Sebastev bowed his head, resigned.

  Colonel Kabanov sat back in his chair and sighed. “I do hate clashing blades with you, Grigorius. Are we not friends as well as comrades? Thirty years have seen us struggle through some hard times together, after all.”

  “You honour me by saying so, sir,” said Sebastev. He meant it, too.

  Urgent knocking sounded on the room’s broad double doors. Colonel Kabanov sat forward again. “Enter,” he called out.

  Lieutenant Maro walked awkwardly into the room, his metallic foot clattering on the marble floor with every other step. He was gripping a sheet of parchment in his right hand and looked anxious.

  “What’s wrong, Maro?” asked the colonel. “You look like you sat on a spinefrait.”

  “A communiqué from Nhalich, sir, from Commissar-Captain Vaughn: It just came through this minute.” Maro moved across to Kabanov’s desk and handed him the parchment. The colonel quickly unrolled it and scanned it with his eyes.

  As Sebastev and Maro waited for Colonel Kabanov to finish reading, Maro threw Sebastev a meaningful look that told him the message wasn’t good news.

  Colonel Kabanov finished reading, loosed off a few curses, rolled the parchment up, and sat tapping the surface of his desk with his knuckles.

  Sebastev’s lack of patience finally got the better of him, and he cleared his throat. Colonel Kabanov looked over at him. “Captain,” he said, “the message states that the Danikkin Independence Army has moved into position around Nhalich. There’s a lot more to it than that, however. Saboteurs have attacked Vostroyan vehicles and supplies there, and the men of the 701st seem to be suffering from some kind of illness. The commissar-captain says he has tried everything to make contact with Twelfth Army Command. Nothing is getting through to Seddisvarr. Damned storms again, it seems.”

  “Attacked from within by civilians?” asked Sebastev.

  “These people are desperate,” said Kabanov, “desperate and doomed. Assemble the men. We’re the closest assistance on offer. Since Command HQ is still unreachable over the vox, I’ll have to take the matter into my own hands. Fifth Company must ride to the aid of our regiment. I want all our transports ready and waiting on the western edge as soon as possible. Since I’m in command, the decision is mine to make. I’ll answer to the general later.”

  It was suddenly clear to Sebastev that Kabanov had been expecting this all along, possibly even counting on it. He’d known the chance to withdraw from Korris would come all too quickly. He’d probably ordered Galipolov and Vaughn to request aid at the first sign of trouble.

  You knew I wouldn’t pull the company out, thought Sebastev. No matter how I feel about Old Hungry, orders are orders.

  “I’ll order the transports assembled at once, colonel.”

  Sebastev saluted the colonel and turned to leave, his mind fixed on the task of organising his men. But just as he was crossing towards the door, sound poured into the room, stopping him in mid-stride. The air filled with a terrible ululating wail. It was so penetrating that it made the thick stone walls seem like paper. Sebastev had been dreading that sound. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

  “Raid sirens on the east towers,” he shouted over the din. “Orks, sir!”

  His vox-bead burst to life with a dozen frantic voices. Reports came flooding in from his scouts. Orks were pouring over the snow from the east. They’d already reached the abandoned trenchworks. The scouts were heading back to the town with all the speed they could manage.

  Fifth Company was in trouble.

  Colonel Kabanov had established procedures for repelling enemy assaults on Korris back when the Sixty-Eighth Infantry Regiment had first moved in to occupy the town. Of course, those plans had been built around command of an entire regiment, so they were mostly useless now. Instead, his strategy for holding Korris with only Fifth Company under his command relied in no small part on the colonel’s many previous experiences with orks. In Kabanov’s opinion, the greatest advantage one had in fighting the greenskins was that they were particularly easy to bait. That knowledge was being put to use right now by the squads of men tasked with drawing the oncoming orks into a trap in the market square.

  Kabanov stood with Captain Sebastev and Lieutenants Maro and Kuritsin, around a table covered with a large tattered map of the town. Kabanov didn’t intend to occupy the place for long, but this building, the remains of a once grand, three-storey hotel overlooking the market square from its eastern edge, was well suited to his current needs. The construction of the old hotel was solid. Thick stone walls offered reassuring cover for the men stationed at shattered windows on each floor.

  Vox traffic was still heavy. Snipers were calling in the movements of the orks. The baiting squads were in constant contact as they drew the orks in. Enginseer Politnov and his small staff of Mechanicus servants had assembled Fifth Company’s vehicles, a few Chimeras and heavy troop transporters, outside the town on its western edge.

  Kabanov tapped the map with a gloved finger and said, “Squads are waiting at these intersections, ready to converge on the square once the orks are in. We’ve got heavy bolter nests set up here, here and he
re to provide enfilading fire. And you’ve ordered snipers onto rooftops and balconies at these points. Is that right, captain?”

  “As ordered, sir,” said Captain Sebastev.

  “Good,” said Kabanov. He traced a street to the point where it opened onto the square and said, “When they reach this point, our men stationed around the square will have visual contact. I want everyone to wait for my order. No firing until the orks have fully committed themselves. It’s imperative that the orks aren’t distracted from their pursuit of Squads Kashr and Rahkman. Absolutely nothing must draw them away from the trap.”

  “Understood, sir,” said Sebastev, “but, with respect, we can’t expect to just herd them like cattle. I think we have to accept that there will be ork elements outside of the trap that could cause us significant problems.”

  “That’s a given, captain. Our troopers will have to deal with stray groups of orks as they encounter them. Deal with the unexpected as it arises, I say. Our biggest priority is establishing a crossfire. It’s the only feasible solution we have at this point for inflicting massive casualties with minimal losses of our own. We need to hold them just long enough for our sappers to achieve their objective.”

  From the room’s empty window frames, Kabanov heard the sounds of ork pistols and stubbers firing into the air. Over the vox, Sergeant Kashr reported that the greenskins were shooting wildly as they followed his squad. A moment later, Sergeant Rahkman reported the same. Both squads were drawing the ork force closer and closer to Kabanov’s trap.

  Kabanov took a glance outside. The day was still bright, and snow sparkled on the roofs of the other buildings around the square. The orks weren’t in view yet. Everything looked peaceful, frozen and still like a landscape painting or a high resolution pictograph. Kabanov knew this sensation well. It was the quiet before the storm.