Without waiting for Kabanov’s approval, Captain Sebastev ordered Squads Ludkin and Basch to spread out, cutting off any chance of an ork pursuit of Squad Breshek. Sergeant Breshek would have enough to deal with at the power plant without having to worry about orks at his back.
Kabanov felt momentarily irritated by Sebastev’s presumption, but the order was exactly the one he would have given, had he been quicker off the mark. Sebastev must have sensed his colonel’s irritation, because he stopped firing briefly, turned to his superior officer and bowed. “My apologies, colonel. It was wrong of me to… usurp your authority.”
“Less talking, more firing, captain,” said Kabanov, realising how foolish it was to damn the man for his quick thinking. If anything, the speed of Sebastev’s reflex had prevented the other officers from seeing just how slow Kabanov had become. “You’re used to leading these men in battle, and they are used to you. I’ll have no apologies for that. In my own way, I’m the usurper here.”
Sebastev straightened. “Never that, colonel. This company follows the White Boar.”
Kabanov grinned, and then turned and resumed firing.
Sometimes your behaviour drives me to distraction, captain, he thought, but at other times, you’re an exemplary officer. Let’s have more of the latter.
The greenskins’ next action disgusted Kabanov, highlighting the fact that orks lacked even the least comprehension of honour or pride. Pinned down without adequate cover, they began to haul the carcasses of their dead into piles to be used as shields. They pulled the heavy corpses up and over their bodies. It was something the proud Vostroyans would never have stooped to, but it was immediately effective. The shields of dead meat soaked up lasfire and bolter fire alike, giving the orks the protection they needed to rally.
Grenades exploded. Orks armed with cleavers and axes darted forward. More Vostroyans began to fall from their positions in the smartly ordered lines. Kabanov could hear increased vox-traffic, officers and sergeants calling for order and courage among the men.
“Two of the ork leaders are still standing, captain,” said Kabanov. “Where in the warp are my snipers?”
Even as the colonel barked at Sebastev, the largest and darkest of the orks rocked on its feet, and collapsed, its skull perforated by a masterfully placed shot.
“Trooper Sarovic reports a successful kill, sir,” said Kuritsin.
Out in the square, the monstrous form of the last ork leader crumpled soundlessly, a sniper’s bullet cutting a neat hole in its chest, punching an exit wound in its back as large as a man’s head.
“Corporal Izgorod also reports a successful kill, sir.”
“My compliments to both men. It’s time we started pulling back. What news from our sappers?”
Lieutenant Kuritsin checked in with Sergeant Barady, but it was another member of the sapper squad that answered in his place. Kuritsin reported to the colonel. “Squad Breshek is at the power plant, sir. They’re engaging the orks. I have reports that Sergeant Barady has fallen, sir. As have three others from his squad. The remaining men… what? Please confirm that.”
“What is it, Rits?” asked Captain Sebastev, moving from his position at the window to stand before his adjutant.
“Our sappers confirm that the charges are set, sir. We’ve got twelve minutes to evacuate the town before the power plant blows. The blast will reach our current position.”
“Then we’d best be away from here,” said Kabanov. “Lieutenant, broadcast the order. I want our men to fall back to the transports in a well-organised relay. Pull squads Breshek and Barady out first, and then the squads on north and south. I want the heavy bolters to cover the final retreat.”
“Understood, colonel.”
“Very good,” said Kabanov. He faced Sebastev and said, “Let’s get ourselves down to ground level and ready to move out, captain. We want to be as far away as possible when the power plant blows. I expect the blast will make a proper mess of things here.”
“No doubt about that, sir,” said Sebastev with a wicked grin. “The bloody orks won’t know what hit them.”
Things immediately looked different to Sebastev from the open street. As he raced from the old hotel’s side entrance with the colonel and the men of First Platoon, he glanced left towards the market square. From behind the heaps they’d made of their dead, ork mobs raced swinging their blades, only to be cut down before they could engage the Vostroyans at close quarters.
The Vostroyan squads had been ordered to fall back, but as they did so, they were forced to keep the pressure on the orks by utilising a staggered retreat formation that made pulling out far slower than Sebastev would’ve liked. Just as he was turning from the scene, ready to race west to the transports with Kabanov and the others, the ground began to shake. Great piles of snow slid from the rooftops around the square, and rabble began to topple from the tops of half-shattered walls.
“What the Throne is going on?” asked a wide-eyed Maro. “An earthquake?”
It was a fair guess given the amount of regular seismic activity that Danik’s World endured, but this was no earthquake. The shuddering of the ground was different somehow. It was rhythmic and regular, like giant footsteps.
“Get moving, now!” barked Sebastev. But the others stood transfixed as a building on the far side of the square exploded outwards into spinning, tumbling chunks of broken masonry.
The orks turned to look, and were showered by a hail of flying fragments. Some of them were crushed to death, rendered little more than smears on the snow by the passage of the largest tumbling blocks. The others ignored the casualties, and began to hoot and cheer. As the great cloud of dust and debris slowly settled in the still winter air, a monstrous silhouette appeared from within, the massive form of an ork dreadnought.
Thick black fumes boiled up from its twin exhausts as they coughed and chugged. The sound of its engines was a throaty, bass rumble that vibrated the plates of Sebastev’s armour.
It was absolutely huge — even taller than a sentinel and far bulkier. A moment ago, the powerful bodies of the orks had looked formidable to Sebastev, packed with dense slabs of muscle that could tear a man apart. Now they looked small by comparison.
As soon as the dreadnought stomped into the middle of the square, the orks swarmed around it, seeking shelter between its gleaming piston legs. Vostroyan las-fire continued to slash across at them from the mouths of alleys and streets, a few beams licking harmlessly across the dreadnought’s armour.
For all its size, the killing machine looked as if it had been slapped together in the most haphazard way. Its bucket-like torso was covered with thick plates of metal that looked as if they’d been stripped from security doors or tank hatches, and bolted to it at all angles. Massive twin stubbers sat fixed above its thick piston legs.
From either side, long steel arms extended outwards, covered in snaking cables and powerful hydraulics. The bladed pincers at the end of each arm clashed together restlessly, eager to tear weak, fleshy beings to bloody tatters.
A ragged banner of black cloth with a familiar image painted in bright yellow hung from the top of the machine. It was the three-headed snake of the Venom-head clan.
“By the Throne,” gasped Kabanov, “we’ll need more than heavy-bolters to take that out.”
“The power plant explosion should do the job, sir,” said Sebastev, “but let’s not stick around to find out. We’ve less than six minutes to get clear of the blast radius.”
Even as he spoke, the dreadnought turned towards the retreating Vostroyan squads on the south side, and Sebastev’s stomach lurched. “Rits,” he shouted, “tell our lads to move it. Forget the covering fire. Retreat at speed! That thing’s going to—”
A deafening staccato beat tore through the air. Fire licked out from the fat barrels of the stubbers, illuminating the whole square in stark, flickering light. A blizzard of large-calibre bullets spewed forth, stitching the front of the south-side buildings, ripping through the walls, a
nd pounding the thick stone construction into so much dust and stone chips. The upper floors of the ancient habs, untouched for two thousand years, tumbled to the ground in billowing clouds of dust.
Sebastev could hear yelling over the vox. His officers were calling their men to cover. “Throne damn it,” voxed Sebastev to them, “forget cover. I want a full-speed retreat, now! Get yourselves out of there. Head to the transports at once. That’s an order!”
The order came a little too late for some. Firstborn were getting slaughtered under the dreadnought’s devastating hail of fire. If the rest lingered even a moment longer, the orks would take their chance to rush forward and engage them at close quarters before they could escape west.
Sebastev saw Colonel Kabanov looking at him. He realised that, for the second time today, he’d bulldozed his superior officer, trampling on the colonel’s authority. But there wasn’t time to offer another apology. They had to get moving. Sebastev figured he’d face the consequences later.
“Colonel,” said Sebastev, “we should run now, sir.”
“First Platoon,” said Colonel Kabanov, “get us safely to the transports, please.”
Lieutenant Tarkarov immediately ordered his men into a defensive formation around the command staff officers. At another word, they took off down the street at speed.
As Sebastev ran, he noticed that the colonel was struggling to keep up. Kabanov was pushing himself hard to match the speed of the others, but his age had eroded his former athleticism. Maro, on the other hand, had mastered a kind of loping run that negated the disadvantage of his augmetic leg.
In the square behind them, the thunder of the dreadnought’s heavy footsteps had been joined by others. More of the ramshackle, red killing machines lumbered into view between the mined habs. The orks roared and cheered as they raced forward in pursuit of the retreating men.
Sebastev saw that the colonel was gasping hard, but there was no time to stop. They were almost at the western edge of the town. Then the assembled heavy transports and Chimeras came into view, waiting patiently in a snow covered field. Their engines idled noisily. Their exhausts, like those of the ork dreadnoughts, spouted dark fumes into the air. The men of Fifth Company who’d already reached the site were hurriedly loading their gear onto the vehicles.
As First Platoon and the command squad emerged from the avenues of buildings, Sebastev saw more men in red and gold running up ramps and into the bellies of the heavy transports. There wasn’t time for any kind of accurate assessment, but at a glance it looked to Sebastev as if Fifth Company hadn’t fared too badly.
As the command squad slowed to a trot, and then a walk, Kabanov scrambled in his pocket for a handkerchief. He raised it to his mouth and gave a series of hacking coughs that made him hunch over. On the colonel’s behalf, Maro faced Lieutenant Tarkarov and said, Thank you, lieutenant. You and your men should board your transport now. Prepare to move out at once.”
Tarkarov nodded, though it was clear from his face that he was concerned, and perhaps a little shocked, by the state of Colonel Kabanov. Throwing a quick salute, he spun and led his men away.
Maro ushered Colonel Kabanov up the ramp and into the colonel’s command Chimera. Sebastev hesitated for a moment. He and Kuritsin looked at each other unhappily.
“It seems the colonel isn’t a well man, sir,” said Kuritsin.
“You’re not joking,” said Sebastev.
More Vostroyans raced from the edges of the town, sprinting towards the safety of the waiting vehicles. The orks could be heard from between the buildings, their grunts and roars getting louder as they closed.
“We need to get moving, captain.”
“There must be more to come, Rits.”
“You know there isn’t, sir. Anyone who hasn’t made it here by now isn’t coming.”
“Father Olov? The commissar?”
Kuritsin quickly voxed a call out for the priest and the commissar, and received prompt answers from Second and Third Platoon lieutenants.
“Third Platoon reports that Father Olov is safe with them in transport three. The commissar has apparently decided to travel with the men of Second Company. Our drivers await the colonel’s order to move out.”
The first knot of ork pursuers emerged from the edge of the town, firing their pistols in Sebastev’s general direction. Sebastev turned and marched up the ramp into the back of the rambling Chimera, Kuritsin following a pace behind.
Inside the cramped rear compartment, Kuritsin hit the control rune to raise the ramp. Kabanov was already strapped in, covered with a thick blanket, drinking rahzvod from a silver flask. Sebastev had expected the man’s face to be red from his exertions, but it was ghostly white.
“May I give the order for all transports to move out, sir?” asked Kuritsin.
“Do so at once, lieutenant. Get us away from this accursed place.” The colonel’s voice was scratchy and subdued. He lifted the flask to his lips and took a deep draught.
Kuritsin voxed the order, and the rambling of engines intensified outside. Lieutenant Maro gave two sharp knocks on the inside of the hull and, with a jolt and a shudder, the command Chimera accelerated away from Korris, leaving the frenzied orks and their monstrous contraptions behind.
Sebastev and Kuritsin strapped themselves into their seats, a quiet look passing between them. No one spoke. A minute later, a flash of bright light poured through the Chimera’s firing ports, followed by a distant boom that rocked the vehicle.
Colonel Kabanov managed a small grin, perhaps imagining the utter devastation the explosion had wreaked on the orks. Sebastev took the colonel’s reaction as a cue. He leaned forward, stared the old man straight in the eye, and said, “No more grox-shit, colonel. It’s high time you levelled with me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Day 686
82km West of Korris — 17:48hrs, -22°C
The setting sun painted the land in hues of reddish gold before it slid from the sky. Cold, dark evening descended. The stars glittered overhead, a billion icy pinpricks of light, and the Danikkin moon, Avarice, rose fat and glowing.
Over the moonlit snows, a column of rambling vehicles charged west with all available speed. It wasn’t much, the unbroken drifts averaged over a metre deep. Fifth Company’s Chimeras were forced to ran slow, matching the speed of the massive, Danikkin-built troop transporters that moved up front, carving broad channels through the snow with their huge plough blades.
The local machines, called Pathcutters, had been sequestered from captured depots throughout Vostroyan occupied territory on Danik’s World. They were ponderous compared to the smaller, better Imperial machines, but they hadn’t been built for speed. Instead, their design stressed large capacity and a raggedness that could handle the very worst of the Danikkin terrain. The troop compartment at the rear could accommodate over thirty personnel and was split into upper and lower decks. The chassis sat high on twinned pairs of powerful treads, well clear of the ground and any obstacles the vehicle might encounter. The height of the troop compartment called for a long ramp that dropped from the vehicle’s belly rather than from the rear like most other APCs.
Commissar Karif had opted to travel in one of these relentless giants, committed to his belief that a commissar should provide a role model to the rank and file. So, as the Pathcutter juddered and forced its way through the deep snow, he moved along the rows of seated Vostroyans, using the handgrips that hung from the ceiling to maintain his balance. Everyone else was strapped into their seats.
“What’s your name, soldier?” Karif asked, stopping to look down at a thick necked man with a waxed, brown moustache and piercing, grey eyes.
“Akmir,” replied the man. “Trooper Alukin Akmir. Third Platoon, sir.”
“Good to know you, Akmir,” said Karif with a nod, “and how many of the foe did you slay back there in Korris?”
“Not enough by half, sir,” said Akmir. There was a quiet anger in his voice. He turned his eyes down to his hands and rub
bed at them, feigning preoccupation with some invisible mark. He didn’t seem the talkative type.
Karif wasn’t finished. “How long have you served in this regiment, Akmir?”
The trooper paused before he answered, perhaps gauging just how open he should be with this newcomer to the Sixty-Eighth. After a moment’s thought, however, he threw the commissar a lop-sided grin and said, “Long enough to know when things are properly khekked, sir.”
Karif was about to ask for specifics when another trooper spoke from behind him.
“He’s not wrong, commissar. We’ve all served long enough to know that those cosy bastards in Seddisvarr left us out to dry.”
There were grunts of agreement from soldiers sitting on either side of the compartment. “Old Hungry,” hissed one. “I never thought he’d finally do for the captain like that. Leastways, not so overt.”
“Emperor bless the White Boar for taking command and pulling us out like that,” said one. More grunts of agreement sounded over the rumble of the engine.
“All credit to the White Boar,” added another. “The Pit-Dog’s a great man, but I reckon he’d have stood his ground to the last. One’s life for the Emperor and all that.”
“The Pit-Dog?” asked Karif in some confusion.
“That’d be Captain Sebastev, sir,” offered Trooper Akmir. “Only, he doesn’t like the name much, so I don’t recommend using it to his face.”
Interesting, thought Karif, and appropriate.
Voices rose in heated conversation, and Karif listened carefully, eager to discover more about the men’s mood. They continued to surprise him. While they’d been somewhat stony and indifferent towards him during the first few days, these Vostroyans now seemed surprisingly open and unguarded. The change was remarkable. Perhaps it was due to his fighting alongside them in Korris. He’d heard it was the way with the Firstborn.
[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter Page 8
