Chapter 3 Part 1

Chapter 3: On Death's ground

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Part 1

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Imperial lines

Pavonian Heartlands

Kronus was for a tough time even in the best-case scenario. If we lost, everyone would be dead if we were lucky, otherwise, we just might become the playthings of daemons and Xeno alike. And when we win as I had to continue repeating to myself and anyone willing to listen? Then everyone still alive on Kronus would be on short rations for the foreseeable future. That one was inevitable – about half the Imperial Guard and most of the loyal PDF units were deployed straight in the middle of the continent if not the planet's breadbasket and very soon we would turn it into a death field.

Outside the Colonel's CP, priests screamed prayers to Him on Terra as if their sheer volume would make him hear and respond. Commissars marched up and down the ranks, shouting encouragements and threats – they did their best to instill more fear in the troops of themselves and me than the green tide fast approaching us.

"Scouts have firm lock on the first wave – it's a disorganized mob, primary melee troops with mixed shooters and the odd AT." An aide reported.

A Techpriest wearing a rusty red robe that concealed almost his, or hers, whole body shifted in the far corner of the CP. Mechatendrils waved in a silent rhythm, red light shone from the hood hiding the Martian's face or what they had replaced it with, and the picture on the hololith in the center of the room shifted.

"Keep the artillery silent and concealed. Heavy Weapon Teams are clear to begin mortar bombardment to soften up the horde once the enemy enters effective range. Unless we're in danger to be overrun, Kill Teams are to hang back. We're likely to get only one chance of this unless the Emperor smiles upon us and the fleet boys and girls manage to fry us a Warboss." Colonel Barnabas instructed. His cleanly shaven head almost reflected the light of the tactical consoles. Instead, his midnight black skin tone, just this side of being unnatural, practically absorbed the light. Two rolls of silver metal teeth flashed in a crooked grin. "The Greenies want a scarp. Let's give them one they will never forget."

Besides a three-dimensional map of the Area of Operations, now the hololith displayed three windows – feeds from Servo Skulls attached to the forward observers and scout elements. As far as the horizon stretched all that could be seen were massed ranks of jogging Orks. Most of them were rather huge, green – naturally, butt ugly, had tusks that would make the largest of boars feel inadequate and every single one of them brandished some kind of weapon, often two or more. Crude axes and swords were a given, along with armor that was practically whatever piece of scrap they cough to get their grubby hands on. Some of them wielded even cruder firearms that by no means should be able to fire, yet in Ork's hands were still dangerous. Much smaller figures darted between the legs of the larger specimens. They were even uglier if that was possible – tiny, gnarled parodies of children that ran in every which way only to be often trampled or even grabbed for a hungry Ork to take a bite of the screaming creatures before throwing the rest away.

Dark, choking smoke formed clouds far behind the visible horde – the enemy vehicle formations, if the expected mob of scrap that somehow moved warranted such a lofty title.

"Designated marksmen, greet our guests. The rest of the Regiment – hold fire until the Orks come closer." Barnabas added. Only now, did he turn to address me. "Inquisitor, it's an honour you chose to fight beside us today. What are your orders?"

Barely visible spears of coherent light lanced from our positions and the few enthusiasts running in front of the advancing mobs soon staggered. Smaller pieces of scrap armor outright vaporized and a chunk of green flesh blew off when green skin burned and blood boiled. Wounds that would have incapacitated the average human if not proven outright fatal merely slowed down the sprinting Orks. Better marksmen didn't bother with body shots and aimed at the heads. Jaws exploded in a shower of superheated bone, eyeballs vaporized, and faces melted. The joyish roars finally turned into howls of rage and pain. Finally, Orks began to fall.

"We'll wait for an opening." I nodded at the Librarian who did his best to lean on a Power Maul while clad in all the bells and whistles that a Blood Raven of his status could scrap together. Atheas was doing his best to look positively friendly and non-threatening without resorting to Warp shenanigans. Needless to say, his effort left something to be desired if the way everyone but the Colonel stiffened when we entered the CP. "Give us one and we'll do everything humanly possible and then some to bag us a Warboss."

"That's the spirit, Inquisitor!" Barnabas' rich baritone echoed around the metal walls of the CP.

"Orks entering effective range. It looks like the rest are as eager to get shot as those enthusiasts."

The horde surged forward and even in the CP, we could hear the distinct thumps of mortars. HE and Promethium warheads rained fire and steel just behind the first lines of the huge mob, effectively slicing the advancing horde into smaller, easier-to-digest chunks. If anything, the bombardment only made the Orks more eager to get to us.

"WAAAGH!" Distant cries echoed above the plain.

"We might not be able to detect Eldar craft before they begin bombing us." I warned.

"We've deployed the heavy AA assets covering our artillery and logistics. The light and medium AA is what we have to cover the rest." The Colonel gave a small shrug. It wasn't like we could call in more assets. "The Aeronautica is out in force as well."

"Ork mobs moving in all across the line..." A Vox operator reported.

On the hololith we saw and moments later heard, auto-cannons, and all other kinds of support weapons let lose – multi-lasers, heavy stubbers favored by the local PDF as squad support weapons, even a few Lance cannons that let loose in a less powerful anti-personnel mode – they sacrificed direct firepower for a weaker, continuous beam that experienced teams used to reap a frightful harvest from the approaching enemy. Soon, massed ranks of Guardsmen, concealed in reinforced bunkers if they were lucky or relying on mere trenches, sandbags, and kilometers upon kilometers of barbed wire if not, began shooting volleys of laser death.

The first ranks of the horde simply vanished, devoured by the firepower arrayed against them. The rest of the nearly mindless brutes only intensified their joyful cries and pushed forward.

"Mortars, switch." Barnabas ordered.

For a few heartbeats, the shriek of falling rounds ceased before the mortar teams fixed the next pre-targeted line and opened fire again, thus serving the next chunk of the horde for our front-line.

And so it begins…