Seventy-eight Adeptus Astartes from Mortai, who had been clad in their armour by the servitors two days ago, and forty gun-servitors bearing heavy metal, ready to support the line company, as well as the two Devastator squads on loan from Ninth Company under Brother-Sergeant Nieman Stahl, and two squads of Scout Marines, the Haradai, under Fell Ambros’s young protégé, Brother-Sergeant Laufey, a warrior who at times rivalled Fornix in his insouciant attitude to discipline.
And what fun Malchai has had, trying to iron out the creases in their faith, Kerne mused. Then he thought also of the regular despatches that the Reclusiarch had been sending back to Mors Angnar, and his face darkened.
Part of him – the deep, savage part which had been wholly human before the Dark Hunters claimed his soul – had a feeling that this would be his last campaign.
If so, he prayed, then Bright Lord of Hosts and Battle, let it be a worthy fight, and let me do my duty by my brothers, and to you and the Imperium before I join your Peace.
Amen.
‘Sir!’ The young ship-lieutenant’s face was suddenly urgent. ‘Comms from Caracalla, priority-code. Unknown vessels twenty thousand kilometres out bearing eight seven mark three.’
‘Composition?’ Massaron snapped. He joined the lieutenant at his console bank, from which a trio of servitors muttered to themselves and extended a dozen mechanical limbs to touch controls and switches as though playing on some absurdly intricate musical instrument.
‘Vox on speaker, sir – it’s Shipmaster Miraneis.’
A woman’s voice rang out hollow across the command dais, crackling slightly.
‘Ogadai, this is Caracalla, we have torpedoes locked on us from four enemy ships, Falchion class at best estimate. Am evading, and launching countermeasures.’
Massaron leaned over the console. ‘Caracalla, break off and lead them back to us. Battle speed. Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged, Ogadai. Breaking off – enemy is on our stern, spreading into attack formation. We’ll do our best to lure them in, over.’
Massaron straightened. ‘A picket-line. These are the sentries for the main force.‘
He looked at Jonah Kerne, and the towering Space Marine nodded.
‘Put me shipwide,’ Massaron said to a servitor, and then: ‘All stations, this is the Master of the Ship. Go to battle stations. I repeat, go to battle stations.’
Klaxons began to echo throughout the immense length of the Ogadai, and there was a perceptible vibration in the hull.
‘Voidsunders being run out, sir,’ the flag lieutenant said.
‘Open all gun-doors. All batteries are to wait for my signal to engage.’
He turned to another servitor. ‘Key in the location of the destroyers, and flag up the enemy. I want no friendly fire here today.’
A sizzle, and the servitor’s steel claws clicked and clacked across its keyboards.
‘Arbion, Beynish, this is the flag. Close in to four thousand and prepare to engage broadsides. Stand clear of the lances. Acknowledge.’
The captains of the other two escort destroyers sent static bursts in affirmation.
‘Captain,’ Massaron said, turning to the Adeptus Astartes on the dais. Kerne held up one gauntleted hand.
‘I am going to the troop decks now, shipmaster. Keep me informed.’
Massaron smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord. This is my ship – I know how to fight her.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Good hunting, Massaron.’
Kerne strode from the command dais, lifting his helm and setting it on his head. It clicked into the collar-ring and hissed closed. At once, the readouts sprang up in his vision, and in the corner of his sight was the blinking sigil which was the command-vox, his private channel with Massaron and the workings of the command dais.
You’d better keep me informed, he thought, and strode down the nave of the starship with one hand on the bolt pistol maglocked to his thigh.
And thank the Emperor and His Throne that it has begun at last.
‘Thank the Emperor it has begun at last,’ Fornix said with a fierce grin. ‘I was getting so damnable bored I was about to start shooting holes in the side of this tub just to change the view.’
He met Kerne at the entrance to the troop decks, and behind him were Jord Malchai, Elijah Kass, Passarion the Apothecary and Finn March of Primus Squad. The rest of the battle-group were lining up, a muster of giants in midnight blue, peppered here and there with the slighter figures of the Haradai in their carapaces. Below their feet the flight deck was rumbling and quivering as the Thunderhawks were shunted in their sleds towards the launch doors.
‘I trust all is in hand, first sergeant,’ Kerne said formally.
Fornix reined in his exuberance. ‘Yes, brother-captain. All squads are ready to embark on your word.’
Jord Malchai spoke up. ‘Captain, I take it we have engaged the enemy?’
‘We’re about to,’ Kerne said shortly. ‘Fornix, prep for ship-to-ship action. I want three squads on the Hawks, with three more ready to embark on my order. You and Brother Kass will come with me and Primus. Brother Malchai, you may join us if you wish. Passarion, with me also, and Brother Heinos. The Haradai will remain aboard – they are not outfitted for vacuum work. Any questions?’
‘Enemy strength?’ Malchai asked.
‘Falchion class, at least one squadron. They could prove troublesome to the Ogadai if they get in close and start loosing torpedoes. I intend to launch once they are within a thousand kilometres, and board.’
He looked round at his brothers. They could not see his face, but none of them had helmed up yet and he was able to see the eagerness in their eyes – even dour Malchai.
‘Are we happy?’ he asked lightly.
Fornix actually laughed. ‘Brother, we are very happy.’
‘Good, now let’s get to the Hawks.’
All was well in train on the flight deck. The deck chief, Gerd Dinas, had learned the meaning of efficiency as practised by the Adeptus Astartes during the course of the voyage, and now he and his crews stood to one side as the Space Marines boarded the ugly square-nosed Thunderhawks.
One warrior from each squad plodded forward into the cockpit and plugged himself into the ship systems, where he was joined by a fleet co-pilot and navigator/gunner.
It was an imperfect system, but Kerne did not have the manpower to crew the craft entirely with his warriors. Massaron had given him the best Hawk-jockeys he possessed, and in the last months these had been trained up by their Space Marine pilots to a level of skill they had never suspected they could attain.
Once inside the Thunderhawks, the Space Marines locked themselves into their launch-harnesses and tested comms. Kerne tuned out the familiar vox-checks and blinked on the command channel. For a while, he listened without speaking.
‘Ogadai, this is Caracalla, I am hit on the starboard side and am losing power. Thrusters are at minimum and all countermeasures have been used up.’
Miraneis’s voice was calm, Kerne noted approvingly.
‘Caracalla, we are at best speed and will be able to cover you in thirty-six seconds. Fire everything you’ve got, Miranda. We’re coming for you.’
Massaron. There was emotion in his voice. A little too much perhaps. Kerne was surprised.
‘Sir, the Caracalla has been locked on by six more torpedoes.’
‘Clear the Voidsunders to fire.’
Nothing for a few moments except the binaric muttering of the servitors on the command dais and the clicking of instrumentation.
‘Target acquired.’
‘Fire one.’
There was a tremor, felt even in the Thunderhawk. Two kilometres away, in the bows, one of the great lances of the Ogadai had unleashed a holy holocaust of energy.