V2 Chapter 3: Elite? We Eat Elites for Breakfast.
The lower decks of the transport smelled, as they always did, of machine oil and sweat and the acrid edge of ozone that had nowhere to go.
The great ship still had some distance to cover before it translated from the Warp and reached the Sabbat Crusade's primary first-phase objective: Formal Prime.
For the tens of thousands of Astra Militarum soldiers aboard, this was the last interval of pre-deployment rest they would get before setting foot on a hive world that was going to become a meatgrinder by any reasonable assessment.
In a slightly dim corner of the common area, buried under piles of canvas-covered Departmento Munitorum surplus materiel and heavy machine components, Stroud had found himself a comfortable position against a large packing crate. An unlit roll of low-grade lho-stick sat in the corner of his mouth. His expression was the particular blend of ease and mild calculation that suggested he was either bored or had just had an idea.
Standing opposite him were several soldiers of the 8th Hyrkan Regiment in their dark green uniforms, turned out to their regiment's standard. They had fought alongside the 112th at Gerlatuus Decimus against the Orks, which gave the atmosphere a working quality rather than the usual territorial tension between regiments.
Stroud removed the lho-stick and tapped his boot heel against the object beside him on the deck.
"Gentlemen," he said to the Hyrkan soldiers, "how much do you want to bet that someone in this regiment can lift this thing clean off the deck? Pure muscle. Nothing else."
The object in question was a solid cast of plasteel, stripped from some heavy engine assembly. It sat on the deck the way a meteor sits: immovable, its surface covered in rough anti-slip ridges, its weight somewhere north of several hundred kilograms.
The Hyrkan soldiers followed his gesture, looked down at the metal mass, and stared at it for a moment.
Then, with the synchronized certainty of people who have just heard something too absurd to take seriously, they all shook their heads.
"Not a chance. No human being alive can do that. You'd need an Ogryn from the rear hold."
"Want to make it interesting?" The grin that spread across Stroud's face was immediate and deeply satisfied.
He rubbed his hands together, letting his eyes drift across the Hyrkan soldiers' pockets. "I find someone right now, bring them here, they lift that thing clean over their head in front of you, you lose."
The Hyrkan soldiers glanced at each other with the quiet confidence of people whose grasp of physics was solid.
They nodded. The corporal added one condition: "Fine. But he can't use any kind of assistance. Pure physical strength. Nothing else."
"Done." Stroud turned around without a moment's hesitation, cupped a hand to the side of his mouth, and bellowed across the rest area behind him: "Anderson! Get over here!"
The sound that arrived several seconds later was distinctive: heavy boot heels on a metal deck, each footfall carrying a particular weight.
A large figure moved through the crowd with the kind of deliberate, unhurried pace that makes the people in front of it decide to be somewhere else, and came to stand beside Stroud.
Anderson was not wearing his carapace armour. He had on a dark green sleeveless undershirt. The sheer scale of his musculature and the cords of his forearms made him look less like a soldier and more like something that had been built for the specific purpose of applying force to problems.
Stroud reached up and delivered a cheerful slap to Anderson's broad back, then pointed at the plasteel casting on the deck.
"Go on, big man. Pick that up. Give these gentlemen something to think about."
Anderson stopped. He looked down at the metal mass for a moment.
Then he turned his head very slowly toward Stroud and looked at him with the steady, unblinking expression of someone watching someone else make poor decisions.
He was a heavy assault company commander in the 112th. He had not come over here to perform.
Stroud endured the stare with diminishing composure, thought it through, and with visible personal suffering arrived at the only workable solution. He leaned close and lowered his voice.
"That half-bottle of reserve I've got under my bunk from Pyrite. It's yours."
Anderson received this. From deep in his chest, through his nose, he produced a single heavy exhale of the kind that in some cultures functions as a signature.
Transaction concluded.
The Hyrkan soldiers held their breath as Anderson walked to the casting without any kind of preparation, bent down, and closed both massive, callused hands around the protrusions on either side of it.
Every muscle in Anderson's arms locked up simultaneously. From somewhere low in his throat, a sound arrived that was more geological than vocal, and the several-hundred-kilogram mass of solid plasteel left the deck.
His core drove the force upward through his spine and into both arms, no wavering, no readjustment, and Anderson pressed the thing clean overhead in a single movement. He stood under the dim lights with the object held straight up above him, perfectly still.
Two full seconds. Then, apparently finding the whole thing unremarkable, Anderson swung his arms down and dropped the casting to the side.
The impact when it hit the deck rang through the entire lower section. Every other regiment's soldiers in the surrounding area stopped what they were doing and looked.
"Throne Eternal..." The Hyrkan soldiers stared. One of them appeared to be searching for a rational framework that accommodated what he had just seen. "He has to be an Ogryn..."
Anderson turned one of those large eyes on them.
The Hyrkan corporal rethought his position rapidly. "All right, all right. Maybe a very intelligent Ogryn."
Stroud was in the process of reaching for his winnings and preparing a few additional remarks about the Hyrkan Regiment's predictive capabilities when a clear, sharp call cut through from behind him.
"Captain Stroud! Captain Anderson! The Commissar wants you."
He spun around to find Evan standing several steps away with the expression of a man who has learned not to be surprised by anything.
Stroud raised both hands in immediate self-defence. "I haven't done anything! This was a physical exercise exchange between regiments!"
"I know." Evan exhaled. "He just wants a pre-deployment briefing."
"Then we're fine." Stroud dropped his hands.
Both of them fell in behind Evan and followed him through the ship's interlocking metal corridors toward the 112th's dedicated section.
Passing through one of the pressure doors, Anderson extended one arm in front of Stroud without comment. He did not say anything. His expression said it clearly enough.
"What?" Stroud adopted an expression of complete innocence.
"The stakes. Half." Anderson's voice had the quality of stone moved across stone.
"What stakes? I didn't bet any money." Stroud pushed the arm out of his way with the air of a man defending an important principle. "Besides, didn't I just promise you that half-bottle? That stuff is exceptional."
Anderson slowed his pace, turned to look at him with eyebrows drawn down: "You played me for nothing?"
"I wanted to see how the bet played out, that's all. And I promised you the drink, which is very good." Stroud held his ground entirely.
Evan, walking ahead of them, gave no indication that any of this was reaching him. He did not look back. He came to a stop in front of a wide cabin, pushed the heavy metal door open, and stepped aside.
The cabin had been converted into a standard pre-deployment command post. Duvette and all of the 112th's senior officers were already positioned around the central hololithic tactical table, waiting.
Anderson and Stroud were last. Duvette gave them a single cold look and said nothing.
After years of operating together, his expectations for these two in non-combat periods had settled at a single minimum requirement: don't cause trouble. That was it. He had long stopped expecting much more.
He looked around at the assembled officers, confirmed everyone was present, and opened the briefing.
The atmosphere in the command post went cold immediately.
Duvette set both hands on the tactical table's edge.
"This engagement is going to be extremely difficult. All of you should understand that clearly before we continue."
He let his gaze move across the faces around the table: Dylan, Kleist, the company commanders. His voice took on the weight of something officially delivered.
"According to intelligence from High Command, the enemy force garrisoning Formal Prime belongs to Chaos Archon Nadzybar's core command structure. Their warlord is named Shebol Red Hand."
He pressed the control panel. The hololithic display built a model of the hive city above the table: vast, structurally dense, its layers descending beyond what any single projection could fully convey.
"He specialises in defensive and positional warfare. You need to be absolutely clear about this: the forces holding Formal Prime are not the kind of cult rabble we have encountered on peripheral worlds. They are not the kind of mob that charges with crude weapons and no coordination."
His tone took on more weight.
"They are a genuine standing army. Well-equipped, with fully developed heavy fire support positions, and completely adapted to the hive city's conditions. Measured against Imperial Astra Militarum standards, they qualify as elite. And these corrupted soldiers have had their pain responses severed. They do not know what retreat is."
The faces around the table tightened.
"However." Duvette paused. Something came into his expression that was not quite a smile. "I believe the 112th's particular expertise, the thing we do better than anyone else in this crusade, is precisely fighting the enemy's elite. There is no elite formation that is stronger than us."
His gaze sharpened.
"Even if they are devotees of the Blood God. Even if they cannot feel physical pain. We will personally teach them what fear is."
The officers who had heard him say this, veterans who had survived more engagements than most regimental rosters had entries, did not produce expressions of concern. They produced the particular smile of people who have been to the absolute bottom of what war can produce and come back from it, and who are now looking at a new problem the way a craftsman looks at new material.
"I hope their skulls are a bit harder than average." Stroud's grin was wide and genuine. He looked across at Anderson beside him. "Be more satisfying when you put them through something."
Anderson lifted one large arm and brought it down across Stroud's back with considerable force.
The blow nearly put the bald man face-first on the metal deck. The officers around the table let out low sounds of amusement.
"Right. That's enough." Duvette straightened and raised one hand for quiet.
He continued: "So. As the sharpest blade in this crusade, our regiment will execute the campaign in two phases."
He worked the hololithic controls. The hive city's exterior defensive network came up highlighted in sharp relief.
"The core hive on Formal Prime has a super-scale void shield array. This means our orbital fire support and heavy artillery cannot reach inside it. None of it."
His expression became entirely cold.
"The only way in is to send infantry and armour forward under fire, knock out the enemy's positions one by one using flesh and firepower in close-quarters work, until the void shield generators are shut down from the inside."
He indicated the outer plains and industrial ruin zones on the hololithic map.
"Phase One: exterior armoured assault operations. We coordinate with the main force to destroy every enemy armoured element and anti-aircraft battery deployed in the outer approaches, clearing the ground for the large-scale planetary landing that follows."
He turned to look at Kleist, standing to one side with the composed arrogance that was his personal standard issue.
"Major Kleist. The armoured command for this phase is entirely yours."
Kleist came to attention, heels together, and delivered a salute that was without flaw. He smiled as he answered: "I will execute the mission perfectly, Commissar."
Duvette gave a brief nod, then turned his gaze to the hive city's main structure on the display.
"Phase Two. The worst phase." His voice dropped. "We enter the main hive directly. That is where Shebol has his command hub. The lower hive's terrain is too broken and too confined for armour to operate in any effective capacity. Vehicles cannot follow us in."
He drew a slow breath and looked at every infantry company commander at the table.
"The 112th will bear the most critical responsibility. We will drive through the enemy's most fortified positions, advance into their heaviest interlocking fire, and be the first formation into this killing city. We will lead this entire crusade's assault. I will be with you."
He reached forward and cut the hololithic display. The command post went dark. Only his eyes caught the remaining light.
"I am going to take Shebol Red Hand's head personally."
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