by Henry Zou
‘This is the Kalinga Curtain, a range of small hills roughly three kilometres in length. A fenced, above-ground installation covers roughly a third of the Kalinga Hills,’ Baeder said, tracing a graphite sketch with his fingers. ‘It is our belief that the majority of enemy assets reside below ground in bunker complexes, thus avoiding aerial bombardment for the past several months.’
‘Where are the fraggers hiding the big gun?’ asked Mortlock.
‘There are firing ports cut into the hillside. We know from the pre-mission briefing that the machine can be moved by means of an underground rail network to various firing positions. Follow the rail link and we’ll find it.’
‘It’s a one hundred metre long cannon for frag’s sake. How hard can it be to find?’ shrugged Baeder.
‘What entry points do we have?’ Captain Gregan whispered weakly. His leg wound had robbed the young, athletic officer of his strength. Baeder feared that Gregan would not be fit to lead his company in the assault.
‘Some of the structures in the above-ground installation must lead below-ground. There also seem to be certain caves carved into the hill that lead into the underground. These entry points are small, however. The most likely entry point for a large force is here,’ said Baeder, tapping a badly drawn icon representing the installation’s docking bays. ‘These are riverside piers which lead into a large hangar that appears, from our observation, to connect directly into the underground.’
‘Then that’s where we’ll hit them,’ Captain Fuller declared. ‘Hard and direct.’
‘It’s also where the Archenemy will expect an attack. They’ll be waiting for us there,’ Pulver said.
Baeder nodded in agreement. ‘It’s too obvious. I really would rather not fall into a well-laid trap, especially given the Archenemy penchant for deviant behaviour,’ Baeder added lightly.
On Ouisivia, officers had been taught to ignore the most obvious approach to any given problem. More than likely the enemy would be prepared for it and any enemy commander would take steps to shore up their weaknesses. Illogical though the Archenemy were, Baeder refused to fall into a well-laid enemy defence due to predictability, and if the Traitor Legions truly had a hand in this, as Baeder suspected, then it would be all the more likely.
‘Here, the docking pier is the most obvious approach,’ said Baeder, jabbing a finger at the rough sketch laid out before them. He traced the metal docking bays that spanned a width of some two hundred metres. ‘So we set the decoy assault here. The entire flotilla manned by skeleton crews will conduct an assault on the docking hangars. The enemy will expect us to land troops here. Instead, the entire flotilla will sit back and hammer them with support weapons. We deny them the assault they’ll expect. Major Mortlock, I’ll need you to lead this.’
Mortlock looked crestfallen. ‘Sir? I lead the decoy? What about the major assault?’
Baeder took a deep breath as if the words pained him. ‘The entire success of our mission will depend on the effectiveness of the decoy attack, major. We need the enemy to really feel threatened there. It will be a delicate task and, make no mistake, a dangerous one. I’m entrusting second command during the assault to Sergeant Pulver. I need you to do this Mortlock, I really do.’
Mortlock clenched his jaw and thought for a second. Finally, he nodded. ‘You can count on it, sir.’
‘Good,’ Baeder said, continuing. ‘The main assault will be dismounted infantry. We’ll move inland, four hundred and thirty-five men. Once the river attack is distracting the enemy, we will secure the above-ground compound and split into company-strength elements, entering the underground through the large firing vents carved into the mountain.’ Baeder indicated these on the map in turn. ‘Once inside, we will follow the rail network that is used to transport the gun to its various firing positions. Remember, the battery can only traverse the rail networks so, if we follow these, we’ll eventually be led to the battery. Once there, disable the battery with det-charges.’
The officers leaned back, their eyes gleaming with the thought of the final assault. They were not violent men by nature, but the past weeks of boredom and terror had made them feel like victims. Now, the thought of finally meeting the enemy barrel to barrel filled them with joy. It was a curious concept. In any other context, the thought of danger and killing was far removed from that of promise. But these were Imperial Guardsmen and war, at least to them, held a terrible allure. It gave them a chance to do the one thing they had trained so long and so hard to do. Kill.
‘When do we go?’ Pulver asked, ringing his dip into a spittoon.
‘It’s 09.00 now. We will rest and prepare. Have all companies ready to deploy by 18.00 tonight. We will break camp by 20.00 and ready positions by midnight. The attack will be 04.00 the next morning so we can make full use of the morning fog. I will give a full briefing in the afternoon, until then gentlemen, go about your business. Rest when you can. Dismissed,’ Baeder said.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Baeder is a stone-cold killer!’ shouted a Riverine, slapping his knee.
‘Yeh. Wouldn’t tell by looking at him but that ramrod is a machine,’ agreed another.
The word was out that the attack would begin at 04.00 and the Riverine camp was lively with cheer. The 88th Battalion had survived the long trek inland largely intact; the four companies were more or less at fighting strength and spirits were high. A leathery, grudging respect for Colonel Baeder was beginning to build amongst the Guardsmen.
Corporal Schilt, however, did not share those sentiments. He crouched in the soft leaf mould beneath the shade of a gum-sap, hugging his lasgun to his chest, and tried to keep out of sight. It was early morning and cumulus clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain again. It had been mere hours since Schilt had almost been on the receiving end of an Imperial fighter and his nerves were frayed. The clouds matched his mood.
In Schilt’s opinion, it was bad enough that the battalion was led by a reckless maverick of an officer. It was worse because now Baeder had earmarked him as one of the battalion’s best forward scouts and almost gotten him killed that very morning. Schilt had no intention of being selected for further special missions.
It was not that Schilt disliked soldiering. He liked it, for the most part. He loved his lasrifle and the notion of being in the Imperium’s warrior caste. The uniform too seemed irresistible to women at ports of call and deployment. But Schilt had no stomach for being put in the gunsights of an enemy. What good were the benefits of being a Guardsman if he was not alive to enjoy them?
Schilt lit a tabac, content to warm his dark thoughts with lung-burning smoke, when Trooper Volk tramped through the undergrowth towards him. Volk was smiling, grinning widely to reveal the gaps in his teeth.
‘What the frag are you so happy about?’ Schilt murmured into his tabac.
Volk was a balding, bearded brute in his middle years, growing soft around his middle. Although he had spent almost sixteen years in the Guard, multiple infractions had demoted his rank. He was forever a rogue and, consequently, one of Schilt’s most trusted in their gang of ‘creepers’.
‘It’s a fine day today and we’ll be fighting by tomorrow. It’s a wonderful life in the Imperial Guard,’ Volk replied, squatting down beside Schilt.
Schilt spat derisively, eyeing Volk with a hint of disgust. There were still at least eighteen hours before engagement and Volk was already prepped to go, his webbing cinched, his canteens filled and his autorifle oiled and cleaned. The old trooper had even patched the holes in his combat boots with plastek tape.
‘Since when did you become one of Baeder’s lapdogs?’ Schilt asked snidely.
‘Ain’t,’ Volk replied gruffly. ‘I’m getting ready now so I can catch some sleep before the afternoon.’
‘You better not go eunuch on me,’ Schilt said, suddenly serious. ‘Not now.’
The face-splitting grin dropped from Volk
’s face. ‘Why? What are you cooking up?’ he asked.
Schilt stamped out his tabac and sniffed. ‘I’m going to frag Baeder.’
‘Before the assault on Kalinga?’ Volk asked. Judging by the furrows that creased his forehead, he did not think it a good idea.
‘Of course not now, you damn pushball,’ Schilt snarled venomously. ‘During the Kalinga assault. I’m going to finish him there, nice and quiet like that.’
Volk didn’t reply. An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Suddenly Schilt shifted forwards on the balls of his feet and gripped Volk by the collar of his flak vest. ‘Damn it Volk, if you’re not playing on this one I’m going to put you out. I’m going to slice you here and no one’s going to shed a damn tear,’ Schilt hissed under his breath. A knife was pressed up against Volk’s ribs, sliding just underneath the bottom of his flak.
Despite being the older and significantly larger man, Volk stammered. Schilt terrified him. He did not doubt Schilt’s threats. Besides being an excellent gretchin stalker, Volk knew that Schilt had already killed a Riverine before. Once, two years ago on their home garrison, Schilt had drowned their platoon medic for refusing to supply him with pain stimms. The regiment had put the death down to natural causes but Volk and a handful of creepers knew otherwise. You didn’t turn your back on Sendo Schilt.
‘All right. All right, don’t get so slicey,’ Volk pleaded, pushing Schilt’s hand away from his neck. ‘I’m in.’
‘Good,’ Schilt said. ‘I’m going to pop him in a firefight. Make sure you and the boys finish the job. Spread the word to the others.’
Volk sighed. Up until then, he had been looking forward to engaging the Archenemy in a firefight, barrel to barrel, steel to steel. Corporal Schilt had just robbed him of all enthusiasm.
‘Give me some tabac,’ Schilt demanded, as Volk turned to go. ‘I’m all out and look, I’m all shaken up,’ he said, holding up his trembling hands for Volk to see. ‘Baeder almost got me killed last night on his fouled-up scouting run.’
Volk began to rifle through his webbing pouches, trying to forage some tabac for Schilt, but he couldn’t do it. His hands were shaking even harder than Schilt’s.
Before the sun was high and the air grew hot, Sergeant Pulver made a roll call of each individual platoon. It took him the better part of dawn and all morning, time he could have otherwise spent resting for their attack on the morrow.
But the lack of rest didn’t bother him. These Riverine were his sons. He went to each man and checked on their preparations. During his rounds, Pulver gave out the last dredges of his dip and tabac. He found out that Trooper Velder’s lasrifle had a warped focus chamber. Unable to fix it, Pulver gave him his own lasrifle and checked out a spare weapon from the supply barge. It was an outdated T20 stem autogun; the trigger mech was stiff and the balance was poor. Pulver slung it over his shoulder without a second thought and went to make certain each and every man would be ready for the fight ahead.
Baeder could not remember the last time he had had more than three hours of sleep in one stretch. He was running on the last wispy fumes of energy, an energy that only lingered because they were so close to the end. Since he had returned with the scout force and briefed the battalion seniors on the assault strategy, their temporary ennui had become electrified. Guardsmen who only hours before had sprawled or crouched in sleepy, silent huddles were now up and moving with vigour. Their jungle clearing erupted with the clatter of men preparing their battledress, shouting orders and relaying supplies.
Following their briefing, Baeder had returned to his bivouac and tried to snatch an hour or two of rest before afternoon preparations but found that he could not. He had lain awake; his eyes open as his mind swirled with thoughts of the coming fight. Finally, unable to sleep, he rose and donned his uniform. He shed the sour rags that he had not changed for the past several days and foraged up khaki officer’s shorts and a shirt of Riverine swamp camouflage. The simple change of clothes would go far in conveying his confidence towards his men. Baeder then shaved with a dry blade, scraping the coarse stubble from his skin along with a rind of dark filth. There was a ritual to preparing the regalia of war that all Guardsmen found universally comforting. As one went through the physical movements, the mind subconsciously readied itself for the trauma that would follow in the hours to come. Slowly, savouring each motion, Baeder shrugged himself into his webbing, a ubiquitous H-harness hip webbing that had served in mankind’s front trenches for thousands of years. It was not the complex chest rig of the Caliguans nor the slim, side satchels of the Persepians but his webbing was slashed with the tans and cream greens of Ouisivia, and Baeder would not trade it for anything else. With a roll of plastek tape, Baeder fixed the loosened straps and buckles which had bothered him for the past few days. Satisfied with his attire, Baeder checked his wrist chron. It was not yet middle noon and he decided to make a tour of the camp before his formal pre-mission briefing.
As Baeder emerged from his tent, nearby Riverine greeted him with a loud ‘Oussss!’ Baeder raised his fist and hooted back. The men were in high spirits and, for Baeder, there was no better sign. The nearness of danger changed men. It was unspoken, but all the men understood it – many of them would be dead by this time tomorrow. Even the youngest, most timid Guardsmen in the battalion stamped around like ursine predators, banging helmets together while chewing dip. There was no time for fear now. The Riverine replaced it with aggression. They jokingly called each other out, snorted with crude humour and shared a gruff, intimate brotherhood. It was not an act, Baeder knew, but a way to quell the fear.
Even those Guardsmen who had never gotten along found time to sit by one another and share their remaining tabac. As Baeder walked through the camp he overheard fragments of conversation that would have been out of context anywhere else, at any other time.
‘…so I left her back home, what else could I do? I didn’t want to be stuck dirt farming like my old man. I hope she’s found someone who treats her fine. I still think, you know…’
‘…my little brother almost took my eye out with that percussion cap. It lodged there. You should have seen the look on my mother’s face. I thought she was going to throw him into the water. I even cried to make it seem more serious than it was…’
‘…I just wanted you to know that I always thought you were a good, solid ramrod. I just never said it before.’
‘Same to you brother. I want you to have my tags if I die…’
Baeder continued on to the outer perimeters of the camp. At the edge of the water, Riverine had spread out a groundsheet held down by stones on four corners. Spread in the middle was a carpet of solid slug ammunition for autorifles. The Guardsmen sat and cleaned them by hand. Their diligence made Baeder’s heart swell with pride. For soldiers who barely bathed and never shaved, they were wiping clean each individual round to reduce the chance of jamming in the middle of a firefight. Approximately one third of the men in his battalion had opted to take LH Fusil-pattern autorifles instead of their lasguns. Each of these men would carry five magazines of thirty rounds into combat. That meant over twenty thousand rounds would have to be wiped and slotted into detachable box magazines. It was a thankless job and it made Baeder glad he was a commander of the 88th Battalion.
Behind the picket line of camp sentries, a makeshift memorial had been set up around the buttress roots of a tall green giant. On sticks staked into the ground hung helmets and metal ident-tags: one for each Riverine who had fallen since their inland campaign and not been given proper burial. Guardsmen came and went, saying their last goodbyes or asking their fallen friends to watch over them.
Baeder knelt down and placed his palm on a helmet. Beside it lay the tag for Corporal Cinda Frey, Three Platoon, Prowler Company.
‘Corporal Frey,’ Baeder said. ‘You may be eager to see your friends in the beyond, but I’m going to try and keep them away from you for a while yet. I w
ant to keep them alive and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do the same for you. One day I know we will all salute each other again, but hopefully not tomorrow. Oussss.’
As Baeder rose and turned to leave, he started to see the skull-face of Mortlock looking at him.
‘How are you feeling, major?’
Mortlock cracked him a wide grin; the sight of the smiling ork skull on his face was ironically comforting. ‘I’m going to kill me fifty insurgents. Just you wait and see. I’m going to tear one limb from limb and beat his friend to death with it. It’ll be a new personal record.’
Baeder did not need to feign amusement, as he often had to during the major’s outbursts. This time, Baeder laughed genuinely. ‘Good to hear, major. I’m going to expect a full field report when this is all over.’
Mortlock’s arrogance had often bothered him. When he had first met the man, Baeder had both envied and disliked him. In the mess halls, Mortlock was loud and supremely confident. But out here, in the thick of a combat zone, the arrogance was like an anchor for morale. Baeder did not doubt that the sight of the one hundred and fifty kilo major slinging his fen-hammer could rally them from the brink of surrender.
Lastly, Baeder strolled to where the battalion’s boats were waiting on the water. Riverine were making the final mechanical checks on their steeds. Others were hauling the last crates from the supply barges. For a moment Baeder considered wading into the water to check on their progress but thought better of it. He wanted the men to know that he had absolute trust in their abilities. The sergeants and soldiers were commanding the resupply with clockwork efficiency, shifting rations, water and ammunition from the vessels and over to the squad and platoon leaders for distribution.
Finally, after Baeder made several rounds of the camp, he retreated to find solitude. He sat beneath a spiny bactris and stared blankly into nothing. This was the fight he had been waiting and training for. Not only during this campaign, but ever since he had joined the Guard. Now here he was, leading a battalion into the heartland of enemy country. They were surrounded and outnumbered by Archenemy fanatics. The success of the entire war could be contingent on the operative success of his battalion within the next twenty-four hours. Despite knowing all these things, Baeder was not at all scared. The only thing that terrified him was the distrust of his own men. He did not know what they thought of him, or whether they even cared for his judgement. That one burning doubt nagged him.
