The rear hatches of the Baneblade were open and its massive engines were idling as Dietrich and Von Arnim strolled through the knot of men and vehicles in the shadow of the tall Departmento Munitorum building. This structure was an austere, utilitarian example of Imperial architecture, the likes of which could be seen on a hundred thousand other worlds, but there was a certain majesty in its brutal lines, all the same.
The rockcrete trembled under their feet with the thrum of the huge Baneblade’s Mars-Pattern engines, and it snorted clouds of smoke into the wind-blown dust, thickening the hot atmosphere even further.
The city sirens wailed as though they would never stop.
Dietrich’s personal command squad was there, and they snapped to attention as the general approached. Nothing more than four lowly troopers, they were nevertheless the most decorated men in the regiment, and were assigned to protect their commanding officer with no thought for their own lives. Instead of the faded green fatigues that the other troopers of the 387th wore, the command squad wore black and green disruptive pattern camouflage, and they had painted the many coloured stripes of their combat decorations onto their breastplates. Dietrich nodded at them, and they stared back into space with the impassive confidence of old soldiers.
Behind them and the muttering Baneblade, three scout Sentinels stood like bipedal monsters in the haze, their hatches all open to combat the heat. And behind those were a trio of squat Chimeras, with a platoon of specialist troopers hurriedly lining up into files at the approach of the general. Younger these, but no less professional in their turnout.
These vehicles and men constituted the command squadron of the regiment.
Dietrich’s adjutant, Captain Lars Dyson, stepped forward with a swift salute and offered the general a strip of plasment.
‘Status report on all companies, sir.’
‘What?’ Dietrich grimaced. ‘I can’t hear myself think with these damn sirens!’
‘All is in order, sir, but we have–’
‘What?’
‘We have–’
And the sirens stopped.
Even with the Baneblade engine running nearby, it suddenly seemed eerily quiet. Across the city, a hush had fallen, and crowds on the streets grew still, everyone looking up at the dust-choked sky as if they expected that very moment to see the clouds part and the enemy begin its attack.
‘Did you see that?’ one of Dietrich’s troopers exclaimed, startled.
A bright flash, like far-off lightning, high up in the wind-driven dust-storm which boiled above the city.
‘Silence in the ranks!’ Commissar Von Arnim barked at once. But he, too, was looking skywards.
More flashes, not brief enough to be lightning. And there was no thunder to accompany them.
‘The orbital batteries have gone into action,’ Dietrich said. ‘Captain Dyson – give me a quick précis if you will.’
‘Yes, sir. All companies are reported fully fuelled and armed, except for Fifth, which is still working on those two Chimeras. The Hydras have been put in place at the north and west gates–’
‘Camouflaged?’
‘Prefab sheds have been built around them, sir – they are completely hidden.’
‘Very good. What else?’
‘A Hanemite infantry battalion has been emplaced with each of our armoured companies.’
‘How are we doing with heavy weapons for these fellows?’
‘Not good, sir. We have lascannons and heavy plasmas or bolters for one company in four.’
Dietrich nodded grimly. There were more flashes overhead, which he ignored. He could hear the crowds again now, a low, rushing sound, like that of the sea at night.
‘All right, Lars, stand-to the regiment. All troopers to their vehicles. Vox discipline to be enforced from here on in. I will be in the command vehicle. All comms traffic to be routed through my station.’
Dyson saluted, his gauntlet slapping against his helmet.
When did captains become so damned young, Dietrich found himself wondering. Then he shook his head as though to clear it, and strode forward into the gaping hatchway at the rear of the Baneblade. Von Arnim and the four troopers of his bodyguard followed. They stood and looked out as the hatch hydraulics whined and the massive ramp began to close. A Sentinel strode past, looking like some prehistoric predator in the dust.
Then the ramp clanged shut, and they were in the belly of the great tank. A further, inner door, and Dietrich found himself in the tightly packed command compartment. He slapped dust off his uniform and sat down on a badly worn metal stool which sprouted out of the steel floor like a mushroom. Four vox technicians were seated at their screens muttering into headsets, and in the corner was the lizard-like presence of the Baneblade’s enginseer, his mechadendrite arms neatly folded away, his eyes a dull scarlet glow. He gave no acknowledgement of the general’s presence, but one of his extra appendages was plugged into the bulkhead at his side, monitoring the machine-spirit of the huge armoured vehicle whose needs he served.
A Baneblade had a crew of ten, but these were all forward in the fighting compartment. This model had been rejigged to house extra vox arrays, and a high-gain antenna had been embedded in the turret. From here, Dietrich meant to monitor and control as much of the coming battle as he could. He did not relish the prospect. It was roasting hot in the cramped compartment, and it stank of oil and sweat. When he wiped his hand across his face it came away gritty with saffron-coloured dust. Everyone else’s faces were streaked with it.
‘Give me a war on a cold planet, any day,’ he said to Von Arnim, grimacing.
‘Message from the marshal, sir,’ one of the signallers said.
‘Punch it through.’
Marshal Veigh’s voice came over the vox, crackling slightly.
‘General Dietrich?’
‘Here, marshal. What news?’
‘The enemy fleet is in high orbit exchanging fire with our orbital batteries as we speak. Orbital defences have been degraded by some forty per cent. We estimate their total destruction in a matter of hours.’
‘Any word on enemy casualties?’
‘We have reports that several of their frigates are dead in the air, and they have lost heavily in fighters.’
‘What about numbers? How many of them are there, marshal?’
A pause, static crackling in the hushed compartment. The engines rumbled mindlessly.
‘Best estimate is at least a dozen cruisers and frigates and one large assault vessel, an adapted transport ship of some kind.’
‘Drop pods?’
‘It seems to be configured for them, yes.’
‘Damn.’ Drop pods were far less vulnerable to anti-air fire than transports, and they could be lobbed almost anywhere.
‘Well, we were right not to try and hold the walls,’ Von Arnim said, his dust-striped face like some malevolent puppet’s mask.
‘Sir–’ this was one of the signallers. ‘We have incoming contacts at forty thousand metres, descending fast.’
‘Excuse me, marshal – trajectory?’
‘They should land within the circuit of the city walls, general.’
‘Signal to all companies, targets approaching. All anti-air to stand by. Marshal, I will have to talk to you later.’
‘Good hunting,’ Veigh’s voice said. And then the vox went dead.
There was noise now, to accompany the soundless flashes in the sky. The Guardsmen on the rooftops of the city looked up at the crack and thunder of sonic booms overhead, and soon they could see black shapes descending in gaps between the dust clouds. The wind began to drop even as they watched, and there were blue patches torn in the yellow curtain above the world. In these swathes of clear air silver shapes darted, towing bright contrails.
Augur-guided anti-aircraft lasers began to open fire, and all over the city bright lances of red and white light jabbed up at the sky, painful to look upon in their intensity. There was the staccato booming of older, shell-firing guns also, and tracer in streams and arcs.