V2 Chapter 18: The Second Offensive Begins
Duvette looked at the list on the data-slate: equipment originally allocated for a general's personal guard, including Demolisher-type Leman Russ tanks, and a range of additional high-grade supplies. He signed his name without ceremony, handed the data-slate back to the adjutant, and yawned.
"These supplies. And the new armoured vehicles and tanks, confirmed they're all on the account." His tone was entirely flat.
The adjutant wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and nodded repeatedly. Under Petrov's standing order of "give them whatever they ask for," the logistics department had bled heavily on this one. He did not dare to look too long at the Colonel-Commissar who had just reversed the campaign's entire strategic direction. He confirmed nothing had been missed, then turned and essentially fled the tent.
Duvette waved and watched the adjutant's hurrying back disappear through the entrance. Then a thought occurred to him. He turned to Anderson and Stroud standing nearby, and gave a brief nod.
"With me. Bring your weapons. We're paying a visit to the 8th Hyrkan's isolation camp."
The three walked through the cold, heavily guarded corridors of the isolation zone. Along the way, 8th Hyrkan soldiers cleaning their armour and bandaging their wounds stopped what they were doing the moment Duvette and his men came into view. Their expressions were extremely difficult to read.
On one hand: this force in black greatcoats had held firm beneath the Daemon Engine's feet and saved every one of their lives.
On the other hand: a rumour moving through the camp claimed the 112th soldiers' terrifying battlefield strength and speed of recovery could only be explained by deep Chaos corruption of the Warp.
In this desperate universe, mortal soldiers feared infection by heretical mutation even more than they feared death.
This fear, planted deep in doctrine and instinct over generations, made the Hyrkan soldiers instinctively pull back whenever a 112th soldier came near. Some were quietly making the sign of the Ecclesiarchy on their chests as they passed.
The bald Stroud watched them behave like people avoiding a plague carrier, and gave a contemptuous snort.
"Ungrateful wretches," he muttered — not quietly enough to avoid the ears of several nearby Hyrkan soldiers. "Should have just left them for that heap of scrap metal to grind into paste."
Duvette made no comment. He looked down at the camp layout on his tactical data-slate, followed the markers, and found the temporary metal room where the secret interrogation was still ongoing.
Without announcing himself, he pushed the heavy iron door open directly.
The air inside was thick from recent high-voltage discharge and the faint smell of blood.
Commissar-General Delane Oktar stood in the room like an angry old lion, a data-slate bearing the Marshal's pardon seal in hand, locked in a fierce argument with the gloomy-faced Inquisitor Maysondaire.
At the centre of the interrogation room, in the metal chair, the young cadet commissar Ibram Gaunt sat slumped, too weakened to hold himself upright.
His uniform was soaked through with sweat. The skin of his neck and wrists was covered with scorch marks where the cortical probes had been forcibly removed. He was so drained he could not even lift his head.
Duvette looked at Gaunt's battered and haggard state and let out a silent internal sigh.
The young man had suffered a completely undeserved calamity. Purely because he had been seen moving too close to Duvette during the battle, the Inquisitors had marked him as the weak point in the line and pushed through it — like sharks following a blood trail to the nearest target.
Duvette walked to the open door, raised his right hand in its leather glove, and knocked twice, deliberately hard, against the iron door. Then he cleared his throat twice.
The argument inside the room stopped immediately. Maysondaire and Oktar turned their heads simultaneously, looking at Duvette in the doorway.
Duvette looked at the Inquisitor who had risen from the shadow at the far end of the room. His voice was calm and carried the unhurried weight of someone who does not need to raise it. "I believe you will have already received notification from your superiors, Inquisitor. Given the current situation, I don't think there is anything left that requires further discussion."
"Hmph." Maysondaire made a cold sound, straightened his black Inquisitorial robe, and walked quickly toward the door.
He stopped as he came level with Duvette, fixed his eyes on the Commissar's, and lowered his voice.
"Understand this clearly, Commissar. I am withdrawing from this investigation not because I fear you. I am avoiding becoming prey for those above me. You would do well to pray that your luck holds."
"Very well, Inquisitor. Many thanks for your generosity." Duvette gave a slight shrug. His tone carried an undisguised lack of interest in the entire conversation. He said nothing further, and stepped aside to clear the doorway.
Maysondaire's expression dark, he departed with his retinue at a rapid pace.
Not far away, old Commissar-General Oktar had already helped the weakened Gaunt up from the interrogation chair. The veteran commander looked at Duvette and gave a slight nod. "Thank you for the endorsement you wrote for the young man. Without your report prompting the Marshal's intervention, they would not have released him this easily."
Duvette shook his head and crossed to the two of them. "This trouble started with me. Responsibility for it is mine. The 112th doesn't leave its own people carrying a debt like that."
Gaunt, leaning against Oktar's shoulder, managed to express his thanks through cracked lips, and forced himself to confirm that he was not seriously injured.
With Gaunt safe and Oktar present to look after him, Duvette had nothing further to say. He nodded, turned, and walked out of the interrogation room with Anderson and Stroud. They had preparations to make for the next phase of the offensive.
Walking back along the path to camp, Duvette considered the battle picture ahead.
His Strategic Revision Proposal had completely overturned the high command's rigid positional advance doctrine. In place of it: the White Scars Chapter, arriving several months ahead of when they would have come in the original course of events.
Duvette understood clearly what the Sabbat Sector meant to this Chapter above and beyond an ordinary campaign objective.
In the first Sabbat Crusade thousands of years ago, the White Scars had fought alongside Saint Sabbat herself, liberating the entire sector with lightning mobile assaults, and had made an ancient oath of blood on this ground.
Now this sacred territory had been heavily contaminated by Chaos once more. The sons of Jaghatai Khan, to honour their ancient vow of vengeance, had to take it back.
The encrypted communications from the combat zone command confirmed what Duvette had suspected: to shatter the enemy's defensive lines completely this time, what was coming to Formal Prime was an entire White Scars Brotherhood.
After a full week of waiting in the perimeter camp, every supply item Duvette had extracted from the logistics department had been counted, checked, and cleared.
The heavy tanks and Chimera APCs to replenish the armoured companies' battle losses — and the light reconnaissance motorcycles Duvette had specifically requested — were all lined up in the rubble clearing before the camp. The 112th had been rearmed to the teeth.
Duvette checked the Legion status display.
[Current Command Authority: Ash Watchers-Eisenmark 112th Armoured Infantry Regiment]
[Total Strength: 2,621 (all personnel)]
He stepped up onto a Leman Russ turret and blew the tactical whistle around his neck in one sharp blast, calling everyone to assembly.
The sound cut through the camp's quiet. Every 112th soldier in their black carapace armour fell into formation with absolute tactical discipline.
"Listen carefully — our orders are in!" His voice carried across the whole position through the amplifier. "Command has confirmed: the White Scars' battle barges and strike cruisers have reached the outer edge of this system. They are making their approach to the primary planet's orbital lane now."
He raised one arm and pointed toward the distant hive spires driving up through the sky, the stronghold of Chaos warlord Shebol Red Hand.
"Red Hand and his rebel main force are sheltering in the upper hive. What we need to do next is one thing only." His gaze moved across every face in the formation. "With your artillery, melta charges, and demolition charges — clear every obstacle and every reinforced blast door on the spiral main passage connecting the lower hive to the upper hive. Every last one of them."
"We are making sure that when these Angels of the God-Emperor arrive, their Land Speeders and attack bikes can drive that passage from base to apex without a single obstacle. Straight into the enemy's heart."
Anderson drove the power maul's head into the ground. Stroud racked the combat shotgun. Every 112th soldier sealed their faceplates. Their eyes held nothing but cold, focused killing intent.
"All units, mount up!" Duvette drew the power sword and swept it forward.
Everything was ready. The roar of engines filled this contaminated ground once more, and all of them followed this force back into the bleeding hell ahead.
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