Chapter 89: The Long-Range Audit
The Chimera Armored Transport surged forward at full throttle, its massive plasteel treads grinding ancient trees into splinters. The rhythmic crack-pop of breaking timber echoed through the forest like a string of firecrackers.
It was in this moment that the Secessionist ambush was sprung. From the dense foliage and hidden hollows, the rebels emerged like ghosts, swarming the armored beast from every vector.
Inside the hull, the Auspex operator's terminal flared a violent crimson. "Targets closing! Hostiles detected at every clock position! They're rushing us, sir!"
Lieutenant Winchester's voice shrieked through the internal vox and the external loudhailers. "Open fire! Erase them before they get close! These 'Unclean' bastards aren't afraid to die—they'll be carrying demolition charges! Purge them! PURGE THEM ALL!"
The turret whirred into motion. The hull-mounted Heavy Stubber began its rhythmic chattering, and inside the hold, the Spire-born retainers opened the firing ports. Ruby beams of coherent light—Las-fire—began to stitch across the treeline, vaporizing leaves and flesh with surgical malice.
Through the external speakers, Winchester continued to scream at his regulars: "Stand up, you drunken curs! If you let a single heretic touch my hull, I'll have your skins for my boots! Sight your weapons!"
The PDF regulars, still reeling from the effects of Kian's "special" amasec, scrambled to comply. Their movements were sluggish, their coordination shattered. They formed a loose, pathetic defensive ring around the Chimera, their hands shaking as they leveled their rifles toward the dark woods.
The two heavy-weapons teams—the 20mm Heavy Stubber crews—were in even worse shape. Normally, a veteran crew could assemble the tripod, mount the receiver, and slot the ammo-belt in fifteen seconds. Now, nearly a full minute had passed. The gunner was fumbling with the locking pins, and the loader had dropped an entire crate of heavy brass into the mud, scattering seventy-five rounds of armor-piercing lead into the muck.
In this state of total tactical collapse, the first wave of rebels hit.
They were the "Cold Steel" squads—melee irregulars wielding jagged machetes and clubs. They shrieked as they burst from the undergrowth, a tide of desperate humanity charging the Imperial line.
The PDF regulars panicked. Without waiting for a firing solution, they began to "Pray and Spray."
Drunken soldiers don't aim. They fire into the dirt; they fire into the canopy. Some forgot to click their safeties off and stared stupidly at their weapons while the rebels closed the distance. Others held down their triggers until their barrels glowed, emptying entire magazines into shadows.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!
The forest was swallowed by the roar of gunpowder and the ozone-stench of the Chimera's autocannon. Finally, the first 20mm Heavy Stubber was assembled.
The gunner, his eyes bloodshot and his head spinning, slammed the charging handle back. CLACK-SHIRR. He didn't wait to find a target. He simply kicked the firing pedal and raked the barrel in a wide, horizontal arc.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!!!
The 20mm rounds were practically small cannon shells. The muzzle flashes were two meters long, and the kinetic energy was absolute. The forest ahead of the gun was simply deleted. Massive trees were snapped in half; the undergrowth was pulverized.
The rebel melee units vanished. If a 20mm round touched a human limb, it didn't just break the bone—it detached the limb from the body. The "Cold Steel" charge was turned into a fountain of red mist and bone fragments.
"Ammo! More ammo!!" the gunner shrieked.
The loader struggled to haul a fresh forty-kilogram crate forward. In the wider galaxy, these weapons were standard-issue for the Astra Militarum, usually hauled by dedicated transport vehicles. But here, the infantry had to manhandle the massive guns while their commander sat in a climate-controlled tank.
By the time the third belt was loaded, the forest was quiet. Nearly three hundred rebels lay dead, their sacrifice having served its purpose: to distract the PDF and draw them deep into the "Kill Box."
"Hahaha! Look at them rot!" Winchester laughed, watching the carnage through his periscope. "They're nothing but meat! Driver, forward! Secure the primary warren!"
The Chimera lurched forward. The engine let out a grinding, metallic screech—the ceramite grit in the fuel-lines was now actively eating the engine blocks—but it maintained its momentum.
"Command, we are four hundred meters from the target," the gunner reported. "Auspex shows six hundred hostiles entrenched."
"Charge! Crush them!"
The PDF regulars followed the tank, emerging from the woods into the clearing of Silas's camp. They were met by a network of reinforced trenches and three hundred and fifty rebel gunners.
The rebels opened up. A wall of lead from makeshift autoguns and salvaged stubbers slammed into the PDF line. The Imperial regulars were forced to ground, diving into the mud as their armor was raked by fire.
Inside the hull, Winchester felt the ping-ping-ping of bullets against the plasteel. "Sump-rats in the dirt! Clear those trenches! Autocannon, fire! Heavy Stubber teams, suppress them!"
The heavy weapon crews crawled toward the front of the Chimera, struggling to set up their bipods. But as the first gunner gripped his spade-handles, his head suddenly exploded.
A spray of red and white painted the receiver of the gun. The Heavy Stubber went silent.
The loader stared at his dead comrade, his drunken brain struggling to process the event. He assumed a lucky rebel shot had hit the man. He shoved the body aside and reached for the triggers.
CRACK.
A 9.9mm slug punched through the loader's chest plate and out through his spine. He was thrown backward, dead before he hit the ground.
A PDF Sergeant nearby saw two men drop in seconds. "Get on that gun! Keep the fire going!"
A private lunged for the weapon. He didn't even get his hands on the grip before a third shot turned his helmet into a shower of plastic and bone.
The realization hit the PDF regulars like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't "Battlefield Noise." This was targeted.
"SNIPER! WE'VE GOT A LONG-LAS IN THE HEIGHTS!!"
Even as the warning was screamed, the second Heavy Stubber team was neutralized. Their gunner took a round to the throat, his life-blood staining the cooling jacket of the weapon.
Six hundred meters away, on the high ridge, Kian Voss cycled the bolt of his precision rifle. A smoking brass casing clattered onto the rock.
He peered through his 20x optic. His Ballistics Proficiency was at 91. At this range, the drunk PDF soldiers looked like slow-motion targets in a shooting gallery. He wasn't even using the mil-dots anymore; his intuition was guiding the barrel.
He shifted his fire. He ignored the common riflemen and focused on the force-multipliers. He picked off a specialist with a light machine gun, then another. The PDF's ability to suppress the rebel trenches was evaporating.
A PDF Lieutenant, driven to the edge of madness, crawled to the side of the Chimera and began hammering on the hull with his rifle butt.
"THRONE ROT YOU, WINCHESTER! GET OUT HERE! THEY'RE PICKING US APART! WE'VE LOST SEVEN OFFICERS AND GUNNERS ALREADY! USE THE DAMN AUSPEX AND KILL THAT SNIPER!!"
Inside the hull, the retainers relayed the message. The gunner, realizing Winchester was too incompetent to give a tactical order, boosted the Auspex to maximum power.
He ignored the chaotic red dots in the trenches. He scanned the distant mountain ridge, looking for a lone heat signature.
There. Six hundred meters up. A single, bright red point of heat, perfectly still.
The gunner didn't wait for permission. He yanked the controls, tilting the 40mm autocannon upward.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!!!
☆☆☆
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