For a brief moment, Stavin caught a look of cold fury in the commissar’s eyes. Someone or something on the lower deck had made him angry. But the moment Sergeant Svemir looked over at him, the commissar masked his discontent. He threw the sergeant a half-smile and said, “I hope my adjutant is proving his worth, sergeant.”
Svemir nodded, and then winked at Stavin. “Rest easy, commissar. The lad has been most helpful. It’ll take more than the sight of shed blood and broken bones to shake this one up. In fact, we’re always short of medics, perhaps with some additional training—”
“Nice try, sergeant,” replied the commissar, “but young Stavin has quite enough to do as my adjutant.”
That’s right, thought Stavin, don’t bother asking me what I think. He talks as if I’m not even here.
Stavin had thought he was getting used to the commissar’s incredible arrogance, but it still irked him now and then. The man was mercurial, to say the least. At times, he was surprisingly friendly, almost parental in his level of concern. At others, he was ice-cold, with an absolute disregard for the feelings of others.
Still, Stavin supposed, there are worse things to be than a commissar’s adjutant, I’m sure. I could be cleaning latrines somewhere.
“And what of these men?” asked Commissar Karif. He looked around at the men lying bandaged on the floor. “How many can we count on should we find the battle at Nhalich still raging?”
Sergeant Svemir’s face darkened. “These are badly wounded men, commissar,” he said. “Colonel Kabanov will receive my strong recommendation that none be called upon to perform in battle. If their wounds were to re-open…”
“I see,” said the commissar. “However, sometimes even the wounded must fight. Let’s hope the town is secure by the time we arrive.”
The transport suddenly lurched hard, almost throwing the commissar off his feet. His hand caught the steel banister at the top of the stairs, saving him from a fall. A number of the wounded groaned as their bedrolls shifted on the floor.
“We’ve stopped,” said Svemir. “Something must be wrong. We can’t be at Nhalich already.”
Commissar Karif raised one hand for silence and pressed the other to the vox-bead in his ear. His eyes widened. “Stavin,” he said, “get cleaned up. “We’re returning to the colonel’s Chimera.”
Stavin nodded and rose to his feet.
“What’s going on, commissar?” asked Sergeant Svemir.
Karif was already halfway down the stairs, his boots clanging on metal, but he paused before his head disappeared below the deck. “Contact, sergeant,” he said. “The colonel’s driver just spotted las-fire in the woods up ahead.”
CHAPTER SIX
Day 686
161km West of Korris — 21:06hrs, -27°C
The moment the Chimera’s hatch crashed open, Sebastev felt the night air stabbing at his skin. He pulled his scarf up over his nose and stepped out, his boots crunching on the snow. Lieutenant Kuritsin followed a step behind him.
Low clouds muddied the sky, moving up from the south-east at speed, swallowing the bright stars as they came. The landscape had turned from moonlit silver to dark, icy blue. Bitter winds were picking up, driving north-west from the Gulf of Karsse.
All around, the air was filled with the impatient rumble of idling vehicles. The Chimeras had moved up on Colonel Kabanov’s orders, arranging themselves in a tight wedge formation with autocannons, multi-lasers and heavy bolters aimed out into the night, ready to protect the more vulnerable Pathcutters.
The Pathcutters held back, arranged in a single column that extended out behind the Chimeras like the shaft of an arrow. The Danikkin machines were light on both armour and armaments. They’d never been intended for a frontline combat role. Maximum load capacity was their strongpoint.
Fifth Company’s officers descended the ramps of their respective vehicles. All interior lights had to be switched off before they opened the hatches. Nhalich wasn’t far away. It wouldn’t do to be spotted. For that same reason, the vehicles had been pushing west all night without the benefit of headlights. The snow was bright enough, even now, for them to see where they were going.
Sebastev watched the silhouettes of his officers as they kicked their way through the snow towards him. Soon, he was surrounded by expectant men. In the darkness, the figure of Commissar Karif stood out from the others, his commissarial cap distinct among the tall fur hats.
Sebastev gestured for the men to step close, and they formed a huddle with their backs to the night air. “About three minutes ago, Sergeant Samarov reported seeing lights up ahead,” he told them. “Possible las-fire at a distance of about three kilometres. Nhalich is about twenty kilometres west of here. According to our maps, it should be visible from the next rise. It’s possible that Samarov’s lights were Vostroyan, but since there’s been no further contact from Nhalich, I’m not counting on it.”
“You expect the worst, captain?” asked Commissar Karif.
“I’d say we’ve every reason to do so, commissar. Something should have gotten through to us by now. This lack of vox-chatter…”
The men were silent as they considered the implications.
“Regardless,” said Sebastev, “our immediate objective is to investigate the lights that were spotted in the woods up ahead.” He turned to the First Platoon leader and said, “Lieutenant Tarkarov, I want you to organise a reconnaissance. Draw scouts from each platoon and have them sweep in twos. The moment they find anything, I want to know about it. The rest of you, go back to your vehicles and prep your men for combat. We’ll know what we’re up against soon enough. Colonel Kabanov will let us know how he wants to play it.”
“I don’t want to believe, sir,” said Lieutenant Severin of Fifth Platoon, “that our own company might be all that remains of the Sixty-Eighth.”
“I don’t want to believe it, either, lieutenant,” said Sebastev, “but I won’t lie to you. We have to consider it a possibility. The colonel always planned to pull us out of Korris. It’s why he stayed. But I don’t think he was expecting this. We’ll proceed with all caution. Lieutenant Tarkarov, let’s get those scouts out there. I want vox-chatter kept to a minimum. And one more thing: get your snipers up front with your drivers. I want our best eyes searching the darkness, not sitting in the back with the others.”
Before the men turned to disperse, Commissar Karif asked them to wait. With hands pressed to his chest in the sign of the aquila, he said, “Emperor, grant us your blessing. Let us be the hammer in your hand, as you are our lantern in the dark. This, we beseech thee. Ave Imperator.”
“Ave Imperator,” replied the officers. Their tone was subdued. Sebastev could tell just how worried they were. The mood was grim as they moved off.
For a moment, he watched their shadows disappear up ramps and into hatches. Then, as he turned to re-enter the colonel’s command Chimera, an unwelcome image came upon him: his officers walking, not into the hatches of their vehicles, but into the hungry mouths of a dozen crematory furnaces.
Troopers Grusko and Kasparov moved into the cover of the trees. A wide road cut through the woods, but it was well-buried under the drifts. Before the deep winter had come, the road had been a busy highway, well-used by trucks carrying Varanesian goods to the docks at Nhalich for export to other Danikkin provinces.
Only the biting winds travelled this road regularly now.
Grusko and Kasparov had been skirting the woods together when a noise — was it a human cry, or just the wind? — made them stop. They split up, intending to advance on the source from two different directions. They were close to the area in which Colonel Kabanov’s driver, Sergeant Samarov, had glimpsed the lights, but there were no lights visible now.
Overhead, the wind whipped at the tops of the Danikkin pine, dislodging snow, and sending a rain of frozen flakes down to the carpet of fallen needles below.
Grusko was glad of the wind in the branches. It masked his footsteps as he pressed forward. Both he and
Kasparov had been issued with low-light vision enhancers. The old goggles didn’t offer true night vision, the best kit was always earmarked for the regiments that served on the Kholdas Line, but at least Grusko could see where he was going despite the all-consuming darkness of the woods. As he moved cautiously from trunk to trunk, he caught movement up ahead. The goggles showed him the figure of a man leaning against a tree with his lasgun raised. He was aiming at something on the ground a few metres away from him.
The man was dressed in a long, padded coat, with a light pack strapped to his back, and seemed to be wearing night-vision apparatus of his own. Unusual headwear, tall and pointed, sweeping backwards like the crest of a strange bird, immediately identified him as a member of the Danikkin Independence Army.
DIA filth! cursed Grusko. What the hell is he pointing his lasgun at?
Kasparov was nowhere to be seen. He should have been approaching from the left. Had he already spotted this figure? Grusko pressed forward, lifting his own lasgun, and taking careful aim.
By Terra, he thought, if I could just take the man alive…
Grusko stopped. Another shadow was moving towards the rebel soldier from the right. The thick woods made the approaching figure difficult to discern. Is that Kasparov, he wondered, or another rebel bastard?
He continued forward, but even slower now, placing each foot with a careful shifting of his weight. The second figure had almost reached the first, and Grusko still couldn’t be sure if it was Kasparov.
As the mysterious figure finally emerged by the side of the first, Grusko saw that both men were, in fact, rebel soldiers. They began talking in hushed voices, but he could clearly make out the sound of harsh Danikkin consonants. So where in the warp is Kasparov, he asked himself? If I attack on my own, I’ll have to kill both of them. I’m sure the colonel would appreciate the chance to interrogate one.
The first figure still held his lasgun steady, barrel pointed towards something that Grusko couldn’t make out from his current position. From their posture and the smug, taunting quality of their laughter, Grusko felt sure they’d caught themselves a prisoner.
Emperor above, it must be Kasparov, he thought.
Grusko considered trying to circle around, get closer and find out, but any more movement at this range might cost him the element of surprise. There was nothing for it. He’d have to take the shot, and it would have to be a clean kill, because the moment he fired, the remaining rebel would know exactly where he was. If the rebels’ prisoner was indeed Kasparov, Grusko hoped he’d have the sense to scramble for immediate cover.
He eased himself down onto the carpet of needles, careful to make as little noise as possible. The wind continued to cover what noise he did make. Once he was settled, he sighted along the barrel of his lasgun and slowed his breathing.
Right between the eyes, he told himself. One shot, one kill.
He placed his gloved finger on the trigger and gently began to squeeze it.
A single crack sounded in the night, echoing from the black trunks. The woods lit up momentarily with the flash of a single las-bolt.
The man with the raised lasgun fell to the ground, as suddenly limp and silent as a discarded marionette. The other stood stunned, gaping at his comrade’s body. Grusko drew a bead on him, but the rebel soldier’s training kicked in. He threw himself behind the nearest tree before Grusko could fire.
Grusko scrabbled to his feet, his heart pounding in his ears. He raced forwards, using the trees for cover as he moved. “Surrender, rebel dog!” he called out.
There was a grunt of pain some metres off to his left. It was the prisoner the rebels had been taunting.
“Kasparov?” hissed Grusko. “Is that you? Are you hurt?”
He was answered with more groans of pain.
“Hang in there, Firstborn,” said Grusko, trying to pick out the shape of the wounded man among all those trees and shadows. Then the wounded man moved, and Grusko saw him, lying on his back with one hand pressed to his stomach. The smell of blood and burnt flesh was strong on the air.
It wasn’t Kasparov.
Fifth Company scouts rarely deployed with carapace armour. The heavy golden plates confounded any attempt as stealth. This wounded man wore full Vostroyan battle-gear.
“Another Firstborn,” said Grusko. “Who are you? Can you talk?”
The soldier might have answered, but Grusko never heard it, because the surviving Danikkin rebel chose that moment to open fire. The first bolt seared the air just centimetres from Grusko’s head and caused him to duck back down into cover.
“Damn you!” he yelled. “Throw down your weapon in the name of the Emperor, Danikkin scum.”
More lasfire followed, carving deep black lines in the trunk that protected Grusko. But the firing stopped quickly, replaced by a chilling scream that echoed through the woods.
What now, thought Grusko? Is this a trick?
“Nice try, traitor,” he called, “but I’ve used that one myself.”
A familiar voice came back at him from the same direction as the scream. “Who are you calling traitor, Grusko, you grox-rutting zadnik!”
“Kasparov? Is that…?”
“Well it’s not Sebastian Thor,” replied Kasparov, poking his head out from behind the thick, black trunk the rebel had used for cover. “You can relax,” he said. “This one has gone to answer before the Emperor for his treachery.”
Grusko stepped out and saw Kasparov tug his knife free from the rebel’s corpse. “Damn it, Kasparov,” he said, shaking his head. “Couldn’t you have taken him alive?”
Kasparov shrugged and wiped his knife on the dead man’s coat. “He was a traitor, you said it yourself. He didn’t deserve to live. Besides, you weren’t doing so great. You’re lucky I was here.”
Through the lenses of his goggles, Grusko could see that the dead rebel was drenched in blood from a multitude of gaping wounds. Still shaking his head at the missed opportunity for a capture, Grusko turned and walked over to crouch by the groaning Vostroyan soldier. The steaming hole in the soldier’s belly said he wouldn’t be alive for much longer. We’ve got us a survivor here, Kasparov, but only just. We need a medic, fast.”
Kasparov came over and stood looking down at the wounded trooper. “By the Throne!”
“We’re out of vox-bead range. Get back to the vehicles and get old Svemir down here,” said Grusko. “Sprint, damn it! Go now!”
Kasparov didn’t waste time arguing. He turned east towards the transports and raced off into the darkness to get help.
Grusko rose and fetched the padded coats from the bodies of the dead rebels. He had to keep the soldier warm. He had to keep him alive. Colonel Kabanov, Grusko knew, would have important questions for this man.
Lieutenant Tarkarov led Captain Sebastev and Lieutenant Kuritsin through the trees, risking the light of a torch on its lowest setting. Here, where the snow rested on the canopy overhead rather than on the ground, the men could move at a decent pace. Tarkarov and Kuritsin were long-legged men, but they carefully paced themselves so as not to overtake the captain. Up ahead, the low amber light of a hooded promethium lamp marked the clearing where Sergeant Svemir was already tending to the wounded man.
As the trio of officers drew closer, they saw two other figures moving about in the light: First Platoon scouts Grusko and Kasparov. Their restless pacing betrayed their agitation. Grusko was the first to see Sebastev coming, and marched forward to greet him.
“Sir, I’m sorry. We couldn’t take the rebels alive.”
Kasparov moved up to stand by Grusko’s side. “It was my fault, sir,” he said. “I got a bit carried away.”
Sebastev looked them in the eye. “Did they have comms equipment? Did they get a vox-message off?”
“No, sir,” said Grusko, “not to our knowledge. Neither man was carrying a vox-caster unit.”
“And neither of you were injured?”
“No, sir,” said Kasparov.
Sebastev nodded and
pushed past them, saying, “Never apologise to me for killing traitor scum. You did fine.”
The scouts saluted, but Sebastev didn’t notice. He’d already turned towards the wounded man on the ground.
“Get back to the transport.” Lieutenant Tarkarov told his scouts. “Get some hot ohx’ down you. No rahzvod. I need you to stay sharp. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir,” replied both men. They saluted their platoon leader, turned and jogged back towards the waiting vehicles.
“What have we got here, sergeant?” Sebastev asked the medic.
Sergeant Svemir was bent over a Vostroyan dressed in full battle-gear. The man’s breathing was shallow, and his eyes were closed, but he continued to grip his lasgun tightly with one hand. Svemir lifted away the edges of two Danikkin coats to show Sebastev the extent of the man’s wounds.
Sebastev grimaced when he saw what lay beneath. The armour that was supposed to shield the trooper’s stomach had been melted through. It looked to Sebastev like the result of a full power lasgun blast at very close range. Beneath the hole in the man’s armour, the flesh was burnt black and cratered. Steam rose from the wound.
As Sebastev got down on his knees, the soldier opened his eyes and looked straight at him.
“Hang on, Firstborn,” said Sebastev, “our man will do what he can for you. Just hang in there, son.”
“This one’s Eighth Company,” remarked Lieutenant Kuritsin. He pointed to the bronze motifs on the trooper’s hat and collar, “One of Major Tsurkov’s men.”
The trooper’s eyes shifted to Kuritsin. “That’s right, sir,” he croaked. “Bekov, Ulmar, trooper, Eighth Company, Second Platoon.”
“Well met, Bekov,” said Sebastev, “but don’t talk, man. Save your strength.”
Sergeant Svemir turned and threw Sebastev a meaningful look. “I think it would be all right if Trooper Bekov talked to you for a while, captain,” he said. “You’ll have to listen carefully, of course.”
[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter Page 10
