V2 Chapter 17: The White Scars Enter the Field
Major General Petrov Duval straightened the creases from his uniform collar, drew a slow breath, and walked into the communications room at the far end of the command post.
The heavy pressure-seal door closed behind him with a dull thud, cutting off the distant rumble of artillery completely.
At the room's centre, large green hololithic screens lit up one by one. Through the faint hiss of static interference, the images of commanders from across the various combat zones began resolving into focus.
Petrov looked toward the central screen, the largest and most prominently positioned.
It showed the strategic command room of the flagship Absalom, in high orbital position. Marshal Slaydo sat in the heavy iron chair that was the symbol of the expedition force's supreme authority.
He was not looking at the screen. He had his head down, a tactical data-slate in one hand, reading its contents with a serious expression.
Beside the Marshal, his most trusted chief of staff Macaroth leaned slightly forward and delivered a quiet word, informing Slaydo that all forward commanders were now connected.
The old Marshal looked up slowly. The face that had accumulated decades of war and scars appeared in the view of every general present.
His sharp eyes moved across the hololithic images of each front-line commander in turn, working through them without haste.
The entire encrypted channel went completely silent. Not a single general made a sound.
"I am disappointed in all of you."
Slaydo's heavy voice reached them through the screen. No furious roar. Only a suffocating calm, weighted with exhaustion.
"The first week of the Formal Prime landing has passed." He threw the data-slate down onto the metal table surface in front of him, producing a sharp crack. "But every front-line report I have received, without exception, has settled into an extremely unpleasant stalemate."
"The operational plan we finalized before departure — to fully liberate Formal Prime within six weeks — now reads like a laughable illusion. Your rate of advance is far below the minimum projected threshold."
Slaydo paused. The atmosphere in the channel dropped to a new low. Some generals unconsciously lowered their heads and avoided the Marshal's gaze.
Slaydo's eyes moved from the hololithic projection back to the report lying on the table, the one submitted directly over the chain of command, from the 112th's Colonel-Commissar.
Then his gaze located Petrov Duval's screen with precision.
"Petrov." Slaydo used his name directly. No anger or satisfaction readable in the tone. "You placed Colonel-Commissar Duvette, and his Ash Watchers 112th Regiment, under detention?"
The sudden call of his name sent a cold sweat across Petrov's back in a single instant. He straightened immediately and kept his head down. "Yes, Marshal. But please allow me to explain — this was not detention. It was isolation inspection."
He steadied his voice and constructed his justification to be airtight.
"At the Dukarala Gate, the 112th and the remnant 8th Hyrkan forces encountered a Warp-deeply-corrupted blasphemous construct in direct engagement. According to front-line reports, they not only survived but destroyed it, and the physical capabilities and combat state they demonstrated in close-quarters fighting completely exceeded the limits of normal mortal physiology."
Petrov raised his head and looked directly at the Marshal. "As combat zone commander, to prevent possible Warp contamination and corruption, I was following the Munitorum's regulations strictly in conducting the necessary isolation inspection. This is the standard duty of my position."
Having listened to the Major General's watertight argument, Marshal Slaydo made no response. No approval. No rebuke. Only a flat, brief sound through his nose.
"We are changing the existing operational strategy." He pressed several keys on the control panel. "Everyone. Look at this first."
A gentle data transmission tone sounded on every commander's terminal. Slaydo remotely distributed the report he had been reading to every forward commander present.
Petrov immediately opened it on his console. The instant he read the author's name at the top, he went completely still.
Report author: Ash Watchers 112th Regiment. Colonel-Commissar Duvette Erdmann.
Petrov read through the report's contents quickly. His expression deteriorated with each paragraph.
In this report, Duvette used a tone that was almost arrogant in its cold precision, and dismantled the high command's current rigid positional advancement tactics without any mercy.
Duvette's assessment was explicit: every hive city's lower levels formed a three-dimensional labyrinth without a bottom. The enemy had deliberately drawn all their forces back into it. In that extremely cramped, structurally complex physical environment, the Imperium's celebrated armoured formations could not deploy properly, all soldiers were reduced to fixed targets for the enemy's heavy weapons. No matter how many more complete regiments the high command fed into this killing ground, all of them would in the end be hopelessly consumed by this meaningless piecemeal attrition.
Duvette's proposal to the Marshal was therefore extremely bold: abandon the pointless positional grinding entirely; immediately deploy the Adeptus Astartes; use Space Marines' absolute mobility to conduct direct decapitation strikes against the enemy's leadership and command nodes.
"What do you think?" Slaydo asked, after a moment to ensure everyone had read through the document.
Several seconds of silence on the remote conference channel, and then it erupted.
The generals, products of formal military academies, each commanding substantial forces, felt greatly insulted. Most launched into fierce criticism of Duvette almost immediately.
Slaydo sat in his iron chair and interrupted no one.
He listened quietly to the angry, the deflecting, the face-saving arguments filling the channel. In his sharp eyes, beyond the exhaustion already there, was an undisguised contempt he made no effort to conceal.
When the generals' noise eventually died of its own accord, subdued by the Marshal's extended silence, Slaydo finally spoke.
"Are you finished?" His voice was not raised. It landed like a heavy weight on every chest in the channel.
He stood, both hands on the control console, leaned slightly forward with an absolute authority that needed no amplification.
"The probing attacks you have been conducting have consumed nearly a hundred thousand lives and one Warhound-class Titan. I do not need your assurances. I need victory."
He swept the assembled images with a cold gaze. "Colonel-Commissar Duvette's tactical assessment is completely accurate. Positional warfare ends here."
"I have already notified the Adeptus Astartes." He produced the announcement with no particular ceremony, though its effect was immediate. "The White Scars Chapter has accepted the request for combined operations. They will join this battle."
The channel went to a dead silence. Not one general raised an objection.
"Now listen carefully to my orders."
Slaydo straightened, and issued the final strategic directive.
"All front-line combat zone assignments change immediately. Cease all meaningless attritional assaults. Transition fully to in-place defence. Your sole task from this moment is to hold the existing defensive line nodes and withstand the heretic counterattack. When the Astartes reach the battlefield, all forces immediately shift to auxiliary offensive operations and provide full support for the Space Marines' decapitation strikes."
"Understood?"
"Yes, Marshal!" Every general came to attention simultaneously.
At the conference's conclusion, Slaydo looked toward Petrov one final time.
"Additionally, Petrov. When this conference ends, immediately lift all restrictions on the 8th Hyrkan Regiment and the Ash Watchers 112th." Slaydo's tone permitted no discussion. "They are the only elite forces in this combat zone capable of working alongside Astartes in this killing ground. I need them back on the front line for the coming coordinated offensive."
Petrov's chest seized, but he lowered his head at once. "Yes, Marshal."
"As for the Inquisition's involvement." A sharp political intelligence flashed briefly in the Marshal's eyes. "I have reached an agreement with the Inquisition's senior leadership. Until this battle is won completely, all inspections disrupting front-line elite forces must stop."
"The Inquisitor named Maysondaire will shortly receive his superior's withdrawal order. Regarding all questions of the unusual matters connected to Colonel-Commissar Duvette and the 112th — after the battle concludes, I will handle this matter personally."
Slaydo gave no one an opening to respond. He settled back into the iron chair and raised one hand.
"Dismissed."
The green hololithic screens went dark with a sharp crackle of static. The communications room fell back into dim, quiet darkness.
Petrov Duval stood where he was and let out a long, slow breath like a man setting down something very heavy.
His back was completely soaked through. The tension that had held his nerves rigid for the last several hours finally found somewhere to go.
But he knew clearly: he had come extremely close to making a politically fatal error out of an excess of bureaucratic caution.
The Marshal had not only adopted Duvette's strategy in its entirety, he had personally used the authority of supreme commander to force the Inquisition to stand down.
That kind of honour and protection, across the entire Sabbat Crusade force, was something only the Astartes chapters themselves could ordinarily expect. And, apparently, one Colonel-Commissar.
"Adjutant!" Petrov turned and called through the door.
The senior adjutant waiting outside entered immediately, standing to attention. "General!"
"Issue orders now." Petrov's voice was fast and precise. "Lift all blockades on Perimeter Camp Twelve. Withdraw the watching provost detail. Return every confiscated heavy vehicle to the 112th. Not one minute's delay."
"Yes, General!" The adjutant acknowledged the order and turned to run the command through the door.
"Wait."
Just as the adjutant's hand touched the pressure-seal switch, Petrov called him back.
The Major General's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind working quickly. Duvette was already a figure the Marshal valued personally, and had backing behind him that the Inquisition itself did not want to casually provoke. His earlier isolation order, while within regulations, had absolutely made an enemy of this man. If he did nothing to repair the damage now, there would be nothing good waiting for him later.
"After lifting the blockade, go there yourself." Petrov looked at the adjutant, and his tone took on an unusual seriousness — carrying, against all reasonable expectations, a trace of conciliation. "On my behalf, convey to Colonel-Commissar Duvette the highest command's respect. And ask them."
He paused. "Ask Duvette and his people what supplies they need before returning to the front line. Ammunition, medical supplies, armour — anything they require. If the allocation isn't sufficient, take from other units to make up the difference."
50+advance chapters at patreon.com/Eatinpieces