CHAPTER 6
MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA.
Imperial Apocalypse Class Battleship Divine Right.
Flagship of Battlefleet Scolaris.
Flag Officer on Ship: The Right Hon Lord Admiral Cardin Vallin.
ETA to Nova Arcadia: 2-4 days at best at sublight.
"Why have you summoned me?"
The voice roused Vallin from his musings on the pict files he was looking on his desk. Looking up, he appraised Lord Inquisitor Anton Jessup, looking like he was in a particularly bad mood.
"And good afternoon to you too, Jessup. Sit, sit." Vallin motioned at the ivory chair on the other side of his desk in his office/living quarters. Jessup stomped over before sitting with a huff.
"Now, if I remember, we christened this system, and by we I mean the entire War Council, this system and its sole inhabited planet…"
"Nova Arcadia!" Jessup snapped irritably.
"Yes! Nova Arcadia. Could you look at these pictograms for me?" He slid the photos across to the other man, who took them and scanned them suspiciously. From the single window in his office, Vallin could see transports with Guard regiments flying off to the planet, it had been 1 day since they'd made a foothold and now they were pressing the advantage.
"I don't understand exactly? Why are you showing me these."
Vallin turned back to the Inquisitor, "Jessup, that planet is the size of a bloody gas-giant, twice the size of Holy Terra or Cadia."
Jessup waved a dismissive hand. "Semantics, my friend. This world clearly has sentient life capable of order and industry. We saw cities gleaming from orbit! Whether cultists or simple folk matters not - our sacred duty is to uplift mankind wherever he is found."
Vallin's eyes remained skeptical. "And you found clear evidence of heresy or alien corruption to justify force? Surviving an Exterminatus is no small feat."
Jessup stiffened, face darkened. But Vallin pressed calmly, "Consider - a world so massive would disperse impacts, Xenos or freak natural events that might doom Earth. They've faced trials we've not. Perhaps earned wisdom from it."
Jessup's eyes narrowed as he regarded Vallin coolly. "You question the wisdom of the Holy Ordos, Admiral? We act to liberate these souls from ignorance and corruption."
"I question unsubstantiated assumptions," Vallin replied calmly. "This world is as strange to us as we are to them. Caution is warranted before persecution."
Jessup waved a dismissive hand. "Their size matters not - where there is life, there are vermin to purge. Your sensoriums have witnessed the taint upon this 'Nova Arcadia', have they not? Mutants run amok, warping bodies and minds with every manner of depravity."
Vallin pondered, stroking his jaw. "Reports suggest unrest, yes. But unrest alone is no proof of xenos influence."
"I expect better from a servant of the Emperor!" Jessup snapped. "Your ambivalence verges on heresy. Need I remind that compliance is our sacred duty?"
"Compliance through understanding, not wanton violence," Vallin replied firmly. "Explain yourself to these people, gain their trust. With care and diplomacy, hearts and minds may join willingly."
Jessup scoffed. "Naive notions! The Emperor's way is conquest, not coddling of lesser races. Already our expedition crumbles without your vigor."
Vallin frowned. "I strive only for victory with minimum cost. Further conflict may breed resistance."
"Then quash them utterly!" Jessup rose, voice rising in religious fervor. "Crush dissent before it forms like the serpent it is! Lend Admiral Marius your ships - together you can bend this world to His righteous rule by sunset."
Vallin stayed his rising anger, considering the Inquisitor's words wary. His desire for prudence warred with duty's demands. At last he sighed wearily.
"You speak the Emperor's will, Lord Inquisitor. I shall reinforce Marius' fleet with available escorts and make orbital batteries available for fire support. But any landings will be overseen by Chaplains, and excessive force will not be tolerated. Compliance through understanding, I say again."
Jessup's expression soured momentarily before smoothing to oily smile. "Wise as ever, Lord Admiral. I knew my faith in you was well placed. The Emperor protects."
He swept from the chamber without further word, leaving Vallin to ponder events unfolding below, and the currents racing ever beyond his control. For now, duty was duty - but in his heart, understanding called loudest of all.
Kilometers away.
The Valkyrie shuddered as it entered the atmosphere, burning up as it did, waking up Captain Eric von Shrakenberg from his nap. Or what could pass for a nap in the cramped quarters of the vehicle. Stretching slightly as he got up, the 21-year-old CO of the 1st Draka Airborne regiment's D company quickly sat back into his seat and did his seatbelt, meeting eyes with William Dressler, the embedded journalist from the Imperial Bureau of Information, a new entity in the Imperial Bureaucracy.
Since the Valkyrie could only carry 12 soldiers (13 if they could squeeze), there were 9 Valkyries carrying the entire company, plus another 6 carrying heavy equipment and such.
Eric snapped out of his reverie as the Valkyrie's engines wound down, signaling their approach to the drop zone. He gave Dressler a nod, saying "We're almost there. Best check your gear."
The trooper next to Dressler helped the journalist strap on a combat webbing and basic armor vest. His lasgun had been securely stored away earlier per regulation. Eric ran through last minute checks with his squad leaders conferenced over helmet comms.
"DZ in five mikes," called the pilot. "Brace for drop."
The Valkyrie jolted as thrusters lowered it to a hovering stop. With practiced efficiency, the ramp cranked down and the first fireteam rushed out into the misty night.
As the Valkyrie shuddered through atmospheric entry, von Shrakenberg was lost in thought. His mind retraced memories of his recent home leave on Draka...
The family estate looked much as it always had, manor house rising proudly amid verdant fields worked by serf tenants. But something felt changed upon Eric's return after so long away.
He found his father Karl sitting alone on the back veranda, sipping whiskey as the sun set. Once their talks would have been lively debates, but an unease hung between them now.
"You visit your sister's grave?" Karl asked gruffly, not looking around. Eric nodded. Eva had passed from fever while he was deployed, the last of his true family remaining on Draka. Only memories of her laughter in these gardens remained. Johanna meanwhile had joined the Aeronautica Imperialis
More silence. Then, "The girl. Did you...?" Karl let the question hang. Tyansha's daughter Anna would be five years gone by now, smuggled offworld where Imperial law could not touch her.
"Safe," was all Eric said. He would not endanger the child further with details. His defiance in aiding her escape had earned Inquisitorial scrutiny before, almost ruining his career.
But his father surprised him. "Good." Karl met his eyes, some unspoken understanding passing between them. The family line would continue, in whatever way it could, through Anna's descendants if not their own. Legacy was all that truly mattered to their kind.
That single word spoke volumes to mend the distance grown during Eric's exile. He clasped his father's shoulder, seeing the pride beneath gruff features. Here was home, whatever trials awaited him elsewhere. Duty would be done.
"You're up Captain," said his sergeant over the comm. Nodding, Eric rose and swung his lasgun to the ready. With Dressler in tow he descended into the clear haze, ghosts of the past falling away as duty called him to the present. Survival here depended on battle-hardened focus, not sentiment.
His HUD pinged outlines of troopers jumping out of the Valkyries. All indications said the LZ was empty of defenses, for now. Eric tilted his head slightly to address the journalist.
"Keep low and do as I say. War has no place for heroes - only the living. Understood?"
At Dressler's gulp and nod, Eric smiled grimly. "Then stick close, and you might just get your story. First Draka, form up and jump!"
As thrusters cut out and the Valkyrie's rear bay began to yawn open, Eric felt a familiar rush of adrenaline and fear. He gave his men a final nod and check of equipment as sunlight streamed into the dim hold.
Then the order came over the intercom: "Go, go, go!" Eric was first out the ramp, diving headlong into the stunning azure abyss with a whoop of exhilaration. For a few weightless seconds he hung suspended, the world falling away below as the wind screamed joyfully past flak-armored plates.
All around him paratroopers spilled from the Valkyries' holds in an ever-spreading cloud, the sunlight glinting firefly-bright from hundreds of strapped lasguns and canopies blooming open. Below, forests and fields stretched toward distant mountains awash in pastels, a perfect painting marred only by the thin plumes of smoke rising elsewhere to the north.
All too soon gravity reasserted itself, yanking Eric earthward at terminal velocity. He toggled his chute and jerked fiercely as deceleration gripped him, the roaring wind dying to a whistle. Gliding lazily now, he took in the landscape sweeping by, committing landmarks to memory. Farther up he could see D Company spreading out into a loose perimeter as planned.
A quick equipment check followed - all was secure. Below, the target LZ beckoned, grass swaying gently in the breeze. Such beauty, Eric mused, yet they came again as harbingers of violence. War had no respect for aesthetics or innocence. All he could do was end it swiftly, with precision and mercy.
Angling his body, Eric spiraled languidly toward the waiting earth, sunlight glinting off conditioned armor. Another battlefield awaited, but for now - he savored the quiet moments aloft, feeling almost like a bird on the thermals. From chaos to serenity and back again, the soldier's constant rhythm repeated once more.
Eric's boots kicked up rust-red dust as he unclipped from his parachute harness. Around him, D Company was forming up according to plan on the sparse plateau.
"Sergeant Durand, ammo and gear check." Eric nodded to his second.
"All present and green, sir." Durand replied briskly after taking a headcount.
Eric surveyed the stark, rocky terrain stretching barren in all directions. Just low, scrubby plants and cracking soil as far as the eye could see. "Not the prettiest place for a picnic. Get the maps out, let's find those landmarks."
As squads double-checked coordinates, he listened to the wind howling across tumbles of boulders and scree. Even the air tasted dry. "Place reminds me of the Great Scar back home," muttered Corporal Kowalski.
"I was thinking more like pictures I've seen of old Terra's Caucasus region," William Dressler interjected from beside them. "Rugged mountains, fierce peoples..."
"Well whatever they call it, we'd best choose our paths carefully," Eric said, activating his augur scanner. "Those rockfalls could hide anything. Rocks, mines...or worse things awaiting travelers."
Outlines flared on the HUD as the scanner pinged. Nothing untoward yet, but Eric didn't relax. "Dressler, you stick close to me or Durand. This isn't a pleasure outing."
The journalist's excitement was poorly masked. Eric hoped they'd find only empty wilderness. But some premonitions proved insightful, and war had an uncanny knack for dashing hopes. Keeping fingers crossed, the advance guard started their trek across the barren flats...
"Captain, the engineers report we've had some mishaps." Sergeant Dietrich approached; expression grim behind his rebreather.
Eric sighed. "Go on, let's have it."
"Two Valkyries carrying the artillery sections went astray, think their navs got scrambled by local magnetic anomalies. Landed inside that canyon to the west, barely got out themselves."
Eric strode to the canyon's edge, cursing under his breath. Sure enough, the wedge-nosed Valkyries sat trapped at the canyon bottom amid outcroppings, engineers scurrying over their frames like ants. A makeshift ramp of rubble was taking shape, but it would be hours before the guns could be manhandled up.
"Any other issues?" he asked Dietrich.
"Minor, sir. Some sprains in the landing, nothing life-threatening." The sergeant hesitated. "Rations and ammunition loads also came up light, logistics foul-up back on the carrier."
Of course, they had. Eric resisted the urge to kick a loose stone over the cliff. "Very well, carry on. Double-check check our friendly refugees down there have all the essentials in the meantime."
He glanced around at the jagged hillsides, sparse tufts of grass the only vegetation in sight. No cover, no water, and the enemy was inbound. A textbook example of questionable terrain for an ambush.
"Spread the men out along this ridge," Eric decided. "Double sentries and standing patrols. If contact comes it'll be sudden, so stay frosty."
The men dispersed to their duties with customary efficiency. All Eric could do was trust in their training and bravery to overcome this shortfall of supplies. And pray the enemy did not force the issue before his heavy guns could be liberated.
Marching a few miles east, they soon arrived at an abandoned village, that seemed to be captured by the 1st Draka Airborne's A Coy as the Imperial Aquila and the Dragon of the Draka flew over a building. Giving a few terse salutes to the few lasgun-toting guardsmen and as his company began to disperse and create defenses, Eric entered the house if that was what it was passing for, that was the biggest, finding Commissar Keurig, A Company's commissar that hailed from Krieg, and had the gasmask well known by his people. Unsurprisingly, commissars from Krieg were disliked for their use of suicidal frontal assaults. There was no sight of A Coy's commander, and the 5 guardsmen were the only members he'd seen
"So...you survived Von Shrakenberg." Keurig rasped without looking up from his data slate. He still wore the customary black coat and large peaked cap of the Commissariat.
"What the Frak happened? Where is Major Leon and his staff? And where is the rest of A Comp?"
"Unfortunately, the good Major, his staff and most of the Company had the misfortune of falling into a steep ravine and getting killed as they landed into it via sharp rocks. The 5 Guardsmen and I were the only Survivors, we took this abandoned village early in the morning. I've taken the liberty of placing myself as temporary commander of all 1st Draka elements by virtue of being the sole surviving officer of high rank." Keurig rasped through his gasmask coldly. "And you, Sharkenberg? Where is your heavy equipment?"
Eric grit his teeth, biting back a harsh retort. As much as he disliked Keurig's abrasive style and Krieg doctrine, questioning a commissar's authority directly would do more harm than good.
"We had some navigation errors, two Valkyries went astray and are trapped in a canyon. Engineers working to retrieve the guns as we speak." His gaze swept the sparse village, appraising available defenses. "Any word from the regiment on reinforcements or new orders?"
"Communication has been spotty due to local geomagnetic interference," Keurig replied flatly. "Last message relayed heavy resistance all along the front. We are to hold this position until relieved."
Eric frowned. Hold against what, with five guardsmen and light infantry? "Any sighting of enemy movements? We saw no contacts marching in."
For the first time, a hint of dark amusement touched Keurig's rebreather-muffled voice. "Not as such, no. But local...wildlife has grown bold. Two sentries did not report in from the northern outpost."
A bad sign, but hardly proof of an organized attack. Eric debated pressing the issue, then thought better of it. For now, they must make do.
"I'll have my men fortify positions. Sergeant Dietrich can relay our strength and supply situation to regiment command." He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Stay in touch, Commissar. Unusual times call for cooperation, not division."
With that parting shot, Eric stepped out into the dusty street, already barking orders to bolster defenses on this untenable frontier. In the deepening twilight, shadows seemed to shift and lengthen across the plains...
"Wait! Shrakenberg, you have yet to hear our orders!"
Eric turned his head to stare back at the gas masked commissar "Orders?" he squawked incredulously.
Keurig's only response was to nod his gas masked head, "Yes yes Shrakenberg, Orders."
"Well spit it out man, don't keep me in suspense!" Eric strode back inside, jaw set impatiently.
Keurig tapped idly at his data-slate. "Intelligence suggests a key mountain pass lies two days march north. Primary route for enemy reinforcements."
Eric crossed his arms. "And?"
The commissar gazed impassively from behind his rebreather. "We are to secure and hold the village. Deny the pass to hostile movement until Third Regiment arrives in three days to relieve us."
Eric stared, nonplussed. "You're shitting me right? My hundred infantry against who knows what coming through the mountains?"
"Vulgarity ill befits an officer," Keurig admonished. "Necessity inspires ingenuity, is it not your preferred doctrine? Consider it...a field exercise in adaptive leadership."
Eric bit back a sharp reply. The commissar wasn't wrong, technically - but holding against unknown odds with threadbare troops was suicide. Unless...
"Fine, you've made your point. We'll fortify, send out fighting patrols, and harass anything that moves. Buy time for relief." His eyes narrowed. "Next time, lead with the karking objective, not your twisted ideas of 'training'."
Keurig sniffed. "Language, Captain. Now go make yourselves useful - I want preppers and fire lanes done by nightfall."
With a curt nod, Eric spun on his heel, storming back outside into the gathering dusk. His men had their orders - now it was time to put Krieg ingenuity and Draka grit to the test, against whatever night and the mountains chose to throw at them.
Gruzinsk Soviet Socialist Republic.
Union of Vostokvakian Republics (VSSR)
Tbilisi
Headquarters of the 414th Motor Rifle Division.
June 3rd, 1995.
Col Pavel Efrimich Kotrov casually nursed his second Vodka bottle in his sparse office. There was nothing left to do, he'd finished up all his paperwork for the day and so he had decided to spend the rest of the dull monotony by drinking.
"Sir! Sir! Urgent orders!" the door burst open so quickly that Kotrov fell from his chair in surprise. Huffing and puffing, he pulled himself up with a groan as the chair squeaked in protest.
"Next time, knock before entering!" he snapped as he looked up from his desk at the young junior officer.
"Apologies, Comrade." the girl replied, "But we've been ordered to get mobilized!"
Now Kotrov looked a bit uncertain, 'Us? Mobilized."
The Junior nodded excitedly "Yes! Reconnaissance flights via drone have revealed that a single airborne company has taken control of a small, abandoned village strategically located on the crucial Ossetian Military Highway over the Caucasus Mountains sir."
"Airborne? Belonging to whom? The capitalists?"
The girl shook her head, "unknown comrade."
"Fuck," Kotrov breathed, running a hand through disheveled hair. He snatched up his vodka for a bracing gulp before addressing the junior officer.
"Alright, have reconnaissance continue monitoring. I want updates every hour. In the meantime..." He jabbed a finger at his drunken reflection in the darkened computer monitor.
"Get the regiment on alert status. Fuel, ammo and rations prepped for transport within the next twelve hours. Air defenses on high alert for possible air incursions. I'll brief political officer Maksimov myself."
The junior officer saluted and hurried off, relief palpable. Kotrov sank back into his chair, scrubbing a callused hand down his face. Unknown hostiles taking strategic positions on his patch? Fuck, would the wartime nightmares never cease?
He dug out a crumpled pack of Belomorkanal, lighting one with shaking hands. Memories mingled with nicotine - blood in the snow, screaming voices through walls collapsing in flame. It never fully left you, no matter how much vodka you drowned it in.
Now mobilizing against an unseen enemy. At least this time he had time to plan and feel out his strengths and weaknesses. And maybe, with fortune's grace, avoid the utter shambles Afghanistan had become.
Kotrov took a drag, holding smoke in his lungs until they burned. One way or another, those occupying his mountains would face the might of the Red Army. He owed it to the ghosts of his men to be ready for anything. Anything at all.
With grim determination, Kotrov crushed out his cigarette and reached for the comm. Time to rouse the sleeping beast.
Timeskip
Conscript Simoni Aleksidze was roused from his sleep quite early in the morning by the klaxons blaring. With a groan, he and so many other conscripts, both male and female trudged to their lockers and grabbed their M88 "Afganka" uniforms. Unlike the first-line units stationed elsewhere, 2nd line units had to make do with Afghan War uniforms, even their weapons were old AKMS and AKM assault rifles instead of the new AK-74, which were rare in this division.
Simoni shook his bleary head, struggling to clear the fog of sleep as shouting NCOs herded conscripts toward assembly areas. All around him, bleary-eyed comrades hurriedly pulled on worn fatigues and equipment, checking weapons by lamplight.
An alert this early could only mean exercises or, far worse – deployment. Rumors buzzed of unknown hostiles taking positions in the mountains. Were they really being sent into action so ill-prepared?
"Aleksidze, get a fucking move on!" his sergeant Bulat barked, giving Simoni a none-too-gentle shove. He stumbled into line, fumbling with his aging AKM's magazines. All around the base showed similar signs of wartime neglect – old vehicles in disrepair, crumbling barracks, and supplies well past expiration dates.
"Oi, Syoma, you still with us?"
Simoni felt a none-too-gentle slap to the back of his head, jolting him fully awake. He turned blearily to see his bunkmate Goga smirking back, already kitted up in faded fatigues and canvas webbing.
"Fuck off Goga, what time is it even?" Simoni grumbled, fumbling with his boots.
"0500. Political officer is doing rounds, rousing the last stragglers." Goga offered Simoni a tin flask. "Hair of the dog, comrade. You'll need it for whatever cock-up has us scrambling today."
Simoni accepted it gratefully, taking a burning swallow of cheap samogon. He choked, waving off Goga's laughter, and forced himself to focus. Boots, uniform, aging AKMS - check. Webbing, canteens, rations - there.
Other conscripts hurried past, some cursing creatively in native tongues. Simoni scrubbed at tired eyes, trying to ignore the roiling in his gut. Not combat, surely - they were support staff for God's sake. But years of drills had taught Simoni that "support" often meant first in the line of fire.
"Come on, looks like we're assembling outside," Goga prodded. "Wanna place bets on what clusterfuck awaits us?"
Simoni shouldered his weapon wearily. "No thanks, I choose life. Let's just get this circus started." With that less-than-inspiring sendoff, they hustled to join their unit in the pre-dawn gloom. Survival was bet enough.
"Damn what I would not give to be a part of a first-line division." a girl groaned "Have you seen them, the photos of the 20th Guards Motor Rifle Division? Camouflage uniforms! T-80 and T-90 Tanks!" In Vostokvakia, a first-line unit was a unit that was stationed on either the satellite states in the eastern bloc or Moskvingrad (The capital) Leningrad or Volgograd.
"Shut up Ia! Pipe down before the politruk hears you," Meri hissed, casting a wary glance at the sleek black zil speeding past.
Ia pouted dramatically. "What, it's true! We're stuck in these hand-me-downs while real soldiers get the glory."
"Real soldiers also get shot at," Meri pointed out dryly. She patted her trusty AKMS affectionately. "I'll take reliability over fashion any day, thanks."
A male voice cut in behind them. "The ladies are right, glory won't save your ass from a bomb. Or from political officer Maksimov if you don't shut it."
They turned to see Petre regarding them with wry amusement. Unlike the city girls, he was rural through and through - hard-muscled from farm labor, and canny as a fox. Rumor had it he could disarm an IED with his teeth.
"You heard anything about the alert, Petre?" Meri asked as they fell in with the forming company.
He shrugged. "Recon spooked some brass in HQ. We're on standby if the shit hits, but I wouldn't sweat it." He winked. "Don't you city girls worry - you've got ol' Petre to watch your back."
Ia made a show of gagging as they joined ranks. Meri elbowed her with a grin, nerves soothed slightly despite the early hour. As long as they had each other and soldiers like Petre, their own mortality seemed strangely distant. For now, that was enough. Meri Tskitishvili really wished she could tape her idealistic friend's mouth shut.
Kotrov meanwhile looked at the old PDA with Maksimov and his other officers.
"How far is this village?"
"It was abandoned in the earthquakes of last month..." Maksimov studied the map on the old PDA, worn fingertips tracing the route. "This village here, Polazuri - it was damaged but not destroyed in the quake swarm. About 50 kilometers as the crow flies from the Ossetian highway over the main ridge."
He pointed to a jagged line of peaks on the display. "Very rough terrain, lots of canyons and dead zones for comms. Ideal spot to control this strategic pass."
Colonel Tkhilava grunted. "So we have the element of surprise, but advancing troops will be vulnerable. What sort of occupation force are we looking at, politically?"
Maksimov shrugged. "Recon drones spotted lightly armed infantry, no armor or air support visible yet. My guess, an early infiltration team securing lodgment for a larger force."
Kotrov dragged a hand down his unshaven jaw, mind racing. "Right. I want 3rd Battalion combat ready to move out at 0800. Tanks in support, gunships standing by for CAS. Major Gotsiridze, get 4th Recon pulling intel from the locals - find us alternate approach vectors."
The officers saluted and dispersed to their duties. Kotrov pored over the terrain analysis, muttering to himself. Taking that village covertly would be ideal, but a show of force might scare off further invaders. Decisions, decisions...
His scribbled notes were interrupted by the heavy thump of rotors. Kotrov glanced up to see a battered Mi-24 gunship landing, disgorging a soaked figure in mud-spattered fatigues. Reports from the fringe, it seemed. This just kept getting more interesting...
Near Polazuri
Valentina Fedorova Budennin gave another shout at the herd of goats, the stupid things were wandering off again. With another shake and ring of the bell, she soon was guiding them again. The beautiful young brunette gave a grumble.
Leytenant Valentina Fedorova Budennin, Politruk, and military intelligence officer in the First Caucasian Intel Brigade sighed as she walked the rough path to another grazing area in villagers' shoes. Valentina suppressed a sigh as the goatherd's bell jangled relentlessly through the rocky meadows. Being undercover had its merits for gathering local intel, but the work was backbreaking compared to her city upbringing.
Still, these isolated hamlets held clues the drones and analysts missed. And with unknown forces seizing Polazuri, subtlety was key. Her uniform and rank badge were stashed safely away - out here she was just Vasilisa, a young widow helping her father's flock to pay taxes.
In the distance, Polazuri's stone walls rose ominously above the treeline. No sign of activity from this angle...but her skin prickled all the same. Had the occupants spotted her daily solo treks?
Valentina shook off her unease, guiding the goats with practiced flicks of her staff. For now, she played the part of a simple village girl, but her keen eyes took in all. And once darkness fell, she would continue her stealthy reconnaissance under cover of night.
Whatever - or whoever - had claimed Polazuri, secrets could not stay hidden from a trained Spetsnaz operative. Valentina smiled to herself. The chase was on, and she was gaining ground minute by minute. It was only a matter of time before her tactical skills rooted out the truth.
Sgt Mierko Schulz looked at the pretty, but dirty young girl as she rang a bell, moving a herd of 4 legged mammals through his scope. The Draka sniper could take the shot right here, and she wouldn't even know she was dead. They'd taken up position on the tallest house in the village.
"Pretty thing, ain't she?" Ludvig, another sniper rasped
"Should I issue a restraining order?" Mierko retorted. It was no secret that the Draka practiced Serfdom way more than any other planet in the Imperium.
"That won't stop me either," Ludvig said cheerfully.
"Throne's sake, we don't even know how many illegitimate children you might have in the entire Imperium of "Bloody" Man," Mierko said with exasperation.
"It's the Draka way."
"Ludvig, I've said this before and I'll say it again, You are weird." Mierko deadpanned.
"Look at her! And tell me you wouldn't want a taste of that."
With a grumble, Mierko obliged. "Focus up, Lud," Mierko chided half-heartedly, gaze still trained down sights at the peasant girl. "Girl's just doing her job, no need complicating things."
Still, he had to admit - sun-darkened skin, muscles taut and supple from labor...there was beauty amid hardship here. And truth be told the isolation was wearing on even his hardened soul. Not that he'd let Ludvig get ideas, scoundrel that he was.
As if summoned, Ludvig leered next to him. "We've held this patch a week with no bother. What harm a little fun among willing locals, eh?"
"Not worth the risk to Inquisition," Mierko rumbled, giving his spotter a stern look. "Nor dignity of our mission. Girl gives you bedroom eyes, you keep it in your blacks."
Ludvig huffed in mock hurt. "Spoilsport. You need a wench as much as me, but duty first, I know." His tone turned businesslike as movement caught his scope. "Got activity, northwest tower. One sentry, rotating every fifteen. Keeping loose watch."
"Focus, Ludvig," Mierko muttered, though privately he had to admit - she was a fine specimen. Dark hair, delicate features, and a body any man would love to -
No. Work first, pleasure later if they lived that long. He snapped his mind back to the mission as Ludvig sighed theatrically beside him.
"Okay, okay, I'm watching. She's made three rounds of the paddock so far, and seems to know the flock well. Local, you think?"
Mierko shook his head slowly. "What do you take me for, a linguist? Could be useful for intel if we can get her talking." His finger drifted meaningfully to the trigger.
"Ja, talking. " Ludvig winked lewdly.
Mierko shot him a withering look. "I meant questioning, you degenerate. Try keeping it in your pants for ten minutes, willya?"
Below, the girl finished her circuit and began the ascent back toward the village outskirts. Mierko tracked her calmly through the scope, evaluating variables. Noncombatant for now...but you never knew when backup might come in handy.
He tapped his earbead. "Captain, this is Two-One. Possible local contact sighted north meadow, over." Time to put the charmers in the unit to work for intel gain instead of just idly fantasizing.
With any luck, they'd learn more about these unfamiliar lands before the next engagement. Knowledge was power, after all.
Hours later.
It was nearly midday now, when elements of the 414th Motor Rifle Div finally arrived near the outskirts, hidden from view thanks to the terrain. Simoni by this time, was fully awake. Once dismounted, their Commanding officers relayed the grand plan.
The division had split into three groups, groups 1 and two assaulting with tanks and APCs would head to Polazuri, and group three would check out the canyon.
It sounded like a shit plan, and the Captain of their company thought so too.
"Well, it is official now, we're fucked. Goga deadpanned.
"Fuck me, what a clusterfuck," Simoni muttered in agreement as the CO finished briefing.
Assaulting a defended town with APCs in these rocky hills was begging for an ambush. Not to mention zero element of surprise now that the whole regiment had belly-crawled here.
Goga spat disparagingly. "That Colonel Kotrov has been drinking vatochka too long. He'll get us all killed trying to recreate fuckin' Stalingrad out here."
Petre joined them, expression grim. "I heard 3rd Battalion's point men already spotted movement in the treeline. We may not have the luxury of a nice clean attack."
Shit. Simoni hefted his aging AKMS, checking the well-worn mag was locked in tight. You could plan and plan, but once bullets started flying all strategy flew out the window. It came down to who wanted to kill and die more in the end.
A shrill whistle cut the air - time to advance. Simoni fell in with his fire team, nerves jangling. Whatever was defending Polazuri, they were about to find out firsthand. All he could do now was put his trust in his mates and rifle, and hope dumb luck held longer than enemy marksmanship.
"Stay low and keep those headsets squawking," Their captain muttered to Goga and Petre. "I aim to get out of this shithole in one piece still." With that less-than-rousing pep talk, they crept off into the green hell of the tree line.
In the village itself, Captain Eric von Shrakenberg, CO of D Coy 1st Draka Imperial Airborne was pacing around. Commissar Keurig looked up from his "Paperwork" and spole.
"you trying to dig a trench, Shrakenberg?"
Sofie Nixon, a Vox Caster operator (Referred to as a Comtech in local Draka Jargon) stifled a giggle.
"I suppose you are trying to recreate the fall of Cadia?" Eric retorted to the gasmasked Krieger sourly before glaring at Nixon.
"Fuck off Keurig, I'm just prepping for whatever shitshow finds its way up this mountain." Eric snapped, nerves frayed.
Holding this village with barely a century was lunacy. But arguing with a commissar usually ended in bolt rounds, so he paced instead, wearing a rut in the hard-packed dirt.
Sofie coughed to cover another laugh, then schooled her features as Eric shot her a scowl. "Apologies sir, but the commissar does have a point. You'll chew through those nice boots at this rate."
Keurig sniffed derisively. "Your concern for Imperial property is duly noted, captain. Though I suggest directing that energy into useful preparations instead."
Eric bit back a retort, taking a bracing breath instead. Right, focus on the tangible - defenses, redundancy, fallback points. Not imaginary scenarios fueled by lack of sleep and vodka.
"Sofie, any word from our missing Valkyries?"
She shook her head regretfully. "Comms in the canyon are still thick as soup sir. They'll have to extract on their own or wait for help."
Shit. Losing those guns would tip the scales badly. Eric resumed pacing, trying to ignore his companions' stares boring into his back. Just had to hold on a little longer...
"Fuck off the both of you," Eric snapped, resuming his pacing.
The situation remained FUBAR. Comms were still out thanks to "geomagnetic crap" as the techs called it. And those two Valkyries were still stuck up the canyon with no ETA for extraction.
At least the village defenses were shaping up - preppers dug, barricades erected, firing lanes cleared. But they were dangerously shorthanded to hold for long against any serious attack.
Keurig grunted irritably. "Your fretting won't make that extraction happen faster, Captain. Have faith in the troops, and focus on our mission here."
"Which is what, exactly?" Eric growled. "Hold out for a relief that may never come? Against enemies we know shit-all about? Fuck's sake, you really know how to inspire morale don't you, Keurig?" Eric snapped.
The commissar gazed back impassively. "Morale is fueled by duty, not delusions. Our orders stand." His finger tapped the vox bead, a pointed reminder.
Eric bit back a sharp retort with effort. Arguing would change nothing, and he had enough on his plate organizing defenses without a Commissarial bullet for insubordination.
Sofie cleared her throat nervously. "Sir, if I may - have you considered using the locals for intelligence? A show of force might bring some willing to talk, help fill gaps in our knowledge."
Not a bad idea, though extracting truth from civilians was an uncertain art. Still, anything to gain an edge...
His train of thought was interrupted by a distant crackle of gunfire from the ridges. Eric snatched up his lascarbine, alarm lighting his features. "Contact, northeast quarter! Sofie, get on that vox and find out what in the hell is happening out there!"
The Commissar rose smoothly, checking the charge on his bolt pistol with a practiced snap-click. "It would seem your reinforcements have arrived, captain. Time to give them a proper Draka welcome, wouldn't you say?"
And that's when explosions started, looking at Keurig, he sourly deadpanned "They have mortars."
"That they do, but they're hitting the outer defenses, nothing too serious yet."
"Which means they're still feeling us out," Eric replied grimly, scanning the ridgelines through his lascarbine scope. "Trying to soften our perimeter before advancing."
Another loud crump heralded another mortar impacts closer to hand. Stone and timber fragments rained down as the outer wall shuddered.
"Those aren't short-ranged tubes though," Keurig observed, unruffled as ever behind his rebreather. "They aim to pound us into rubble rather than storm our barricades."
Eric spat a curse. Pounding artillery duels favored defenders with numbers, and they had precious little of either. "Sofie, any word from command yet on reinforcements or extraction?"
Her voice cracked back tinnily over the vox. "Negative sir, still no response. Geomag interference is intense, they may not even be receiving our signals!"
Double fuck. Isolated with only their wits and lasguns between these mortars and whoever held the gun sights. Eric toggled his mic grudgingly.
"Keurig's right, they mean to peel our defenses layer by layer. We fall back, and dig in deeper inside the buildings. No heroic last stands, I want you all in one piece to repay these schweine in kind, you hear?"
Acknowledgments crackled back as the troops fell back under mortar fire. It would be a long, vicious fight from here on. But Draka gave no ground except through vaporization, and by damn if Eric intended to break that tradition today.
Outer barricades
Hanz Klaas grunted as another mortar nearly ended his life. Peering through the iron sights of his Accatran pattern bullpup lasgun, the standard weapon of any airborne regiment of the Astra Millitarum. Through the hazy smoke, he saw Khaki glad troops armed with Autoguns. He noted that their uniforms vaguely resembled those of the Valhallan Ice Warriors (down to the bright red shoulder boards worn by some regiments and the classic fur hat), albeit absent any winter coats or flak armor.
They seemed young and freash too, probably untrained conscripts of the local PDF.
Hanz wiped grit from his goggles, peering intently at the advancing line. There it was - that telltale rookie stiffness, no fluid team coordination. Just farmers playing at soldiers under political officers' watchful eyes.
It would be almost insulting if it didn't work to his advantage.
"Conscripts," he growled over the squad vox. "Lotta bark but no bite. Let 'em bunch up nice and tight, then I say we give these khaki bastards an old-fashioned Draka welcome, ja?"
Affirmation cracked back as his troopers settled into firing positions amid the rubble. A pattering of autogun fire tested the smoke and dust, seeking targets without much skill behind the trigger. Amateurs.
Hanz signaled his lascannon team, lining up the sight reticule coolly on the largest knot of khakis. "On my mark, lads - light 'em up bright as Vect! For the Imperium!"
He squeezed the trigger in time with their answering roar, las-bolts lancing through the veil of mortar dust to blast a gaping hole in the conscript line. Autoguns revved up in panic, spilling bullets wildly as more las-beams stabbed home from Draka snipers taking careful aim.
Before the smoke had even cleared their position, Hanz was up and waving the all-clear with a feral grin beneath his rebreather. Just another day at the office, sending farmboys back to the earth. Now if only higher command would gift them a real fight...
Simoni and his fellow conscripts had been creeping forward on the village when the mortars had opened up.
That kicked up the hornet's nest real quick.
With an exclamation the captain had urged the company forward and Simoni broke into a sprint, the smoke hopefully covering them. Then the red beams had opened up.
Within seconds, the captain, the Lieutenant, and some unlucky conscripts had been hit, some of them having limbs sheared off. Some of the terrified tried to fire with their Kalashnikovs but hit no cigar.
Still, the company advanced, even as casualties began to mount. Simoni crawled over still warm and sometimes smoking bodies of comrades to advance at a painstakingly slow speed, giving short bursts from his AKMS, before moving again.
It was very surreal, to say the least, that the enemy had fucking laser guns from Science fiction novels and movies he'd seen as a boy in the 80s! Simoni reloaded quickly as he crawled, and that is when he saw Goga die.
His friend had been crouching when the laser beams hit him. No shout or cry of pain, it had been that quick. His Ushanka, with its hammer and sickle and red star pin had fallen off, fluttering as it rolled downwards.
Something snapped in the young Tbilisi city boy-turned-conscript. With a bubbling snarl, he whipped out a grenade from his pouch, and pushed the button, setting the charge as it beeped and began to "Cook". He waited until it had nearly finished the yellow and reached the red section before throwing it...
Hanz had almost begun to relax amid the scattered gunfire response, when the sound of a clunk was heard, followed by something rolling and stopping in the middle of their ad-hoc position. It was painted in fading green...with a counter that was dully, almost red. There was a beep and a buzzing as Hanz looked up, one of his comrades said the exclamation for him.
"Fra-" the man's voice was cut off as the grenade exploded. Hanz was literally flung into the. air. No joke, he had become airborne, in the literal sense of the world.
Sweet throne, I'm flying. His addled brain thought. He was flying! He was flying! How high was he?
Hanz's jumbled thoughts scattered as his ass-over-teakettle tumble through the air finally came to an abrupt halt - against something very solid and unyielding.
His vision swam, ribs screaming protest as he dragged himself upright with a groan. What...where... Dimly he registered lying in a tangled heap amid chunks of shattered masonry and thin streams of dust floating on the disturbed air.
Memory returned in painful pieces. The grenade, the blast flinging him god knows how far through the air to land here, in the ruins of some abandoned structure's shell. He tried to tally damage - two, no three cracked ribs at least, left leg twisted at an unnatural angle, lascannon gone to the Immaterium. For a dizzying moment the battle sounds faded, replaced by an high-pitched whine.
Then training kicked in, dragging Hanz back from the brink. He blinked dust from his streaming eyes, body arcing with agony at the slightest shift. But his lasgun was still clutched in one fist, his friends out there fighting and dying.
A guttural cry startled him - a lumbering figure emerged from the smoke, fatigues in tatters and face a mask of rage and grief. It took Hanz a heartbeat to recognize the features as human, not Ogryn or beast, and another to realize the rough words it screamed were a native dialect of low Gothic, or something else entirely.
This was no empty-eyed automaton, but a man unleashed by loss and madness. Hanz brought his lasgun up through sheer force of will just as the man fell upon him, fingers scrabbling for his throat with uncanny strength.
He squeezed the trigger on instinct alone, a cherry-red beam engulfing the charging soldier's flesh. The body jerked, boneless, and collapsed atop Hanz with a death rattle.
Gasping, Hanz heaved the corpse off with the last dregs of his ebbing strength and rolled onto his back. His lasgun had sustained the barrage somehow, still clutched in numb fingers - a small miracle.
But the battle still raged around him, comrades calling for medevac, enemy closing in unseen. Hanz cycled the charging handle once more with a prayer, and then darkness claimed him at last.
Simoni charged in once the grenade had exploded, following another conscript ahead of him, who'd disappeared in the haze. With a grunt, Simoni forced his legs into another sprint before he jumped over a destroyed section of the wall and went into a room, coming upwards to a scene where: A wounded hostile heaved off the body of Simoni's fellow conscript before falling unconscious, leaving two soldiers-one whose back was turned and another who was crouched over the unconscious one.
With a roar, he fired his AKMS into the back of the unsuspecting one before he lunged at the remaining living one. The soldier shrieked with fear as they tried to grab a weapon before Simoni brought both his AKMS and his bodyweight down on them.
Simoni was not the most physically fit person in the unit, but the adrenaline, filled with battle rage at seeing his friend die created enough force that the enemy soldier was pushed and hit their head, causing their helmet to fly off, revealing… a her.
He found himself staring back at a human face. No insect features, no tentacles, or even horns, just a normal, human face. She had red hair done in a short bob, and confused, (And slightly concussed) grey eyes. Her body armor had a winged skull emblazoned on it (Her helmet had a double-headed eagle).
For a minute, both stared at each other.
Then, Simoni brought the skeleton stock of his Kalashnikov down on her face. These Invaders were the reason Goga died, so he did the thing his friend would have wanted. He began to savagely beat the soldier in an unfair, one-sided melee, barely even giving her the chance to defend herself.
Her cries in her guttural language, became interspaced with his cries of rage. He had no idea how long this took, it may have been minutes or even an hour before he felt a hand on his shoulder. With a cry of surprise, he swung to face the intruder, only to find Petre.
"Syoma...what the hell? "Simoni, stop!" Petre roared, grabbing Simoni firmly by both shoulders to wrench him away from the battered form sprawled crimson at his feet.
Simoni sagged in his grip, coming back to himself with a shuddering gasp. His uniform was spattered red from elbow to waist, rifle stripped from nerveless fingers and tossed aside.
"She- she killed Goga," he stammered numbly, sinking to his knees. But even through the haze of bloodlust's aftermath, some small rational corner of his brain noted the details didn't add up.
Petre knelt before him, scrubbing a grimy hand down his face. "Goga died out in the meadow, not in here. This one was ready to surrender before you went medieval on her ass."
Simoni came back to himself slowly, hands still clenched around his rifle. They were slick, stained dark, and it took a long moment to register what with.
Facing Petre, he saw only disgust and horror. A sob ripped its way free as Simoni finally took in the bloody mess before him, the wreckage of a human being pulped almost beyond recognition.
"I... I couldn't stop," he gasped, staring at his gore-spattered hands like they belonged to someone else. Reality was catching up fast, and none of it made sense. "She killed Goga, so I...fuck, Petre what have I done?"
Petre's face was grim, eyes haunted in a way Simoni had never seen before this day. War, it seemed, had marked them both irrevocably.
"We need to pull back, get the medics for this one if she's not gone already." His tone was flat, all humor bled dry. "I'll handle cleanup. You just..."
He trailed off helplessly, seeing Simoni was in no state to understand orders. With a slow exhale Petre clasped his friend's shoulder firmly, steering him away.
"Come on. Leave this place."
Simoni went mechanically, mind still replaying that looping snatch of butchery on constant repeat. This wasn't glory or vengeance - it was something darker he'd never come back from.
He didn't remember the slog back to friendly lines, or the medics who cleaned his wounds with tight lips. Only Goga's grin, fading into nightmares as the reality of what war truly meant slowly sank its teeth in for good.
"We have taken the outer baricades of Polazuri, Comrade Kotrov." The officer wearing KLMK camoflage reported,
"How so?"
"Thanks to the actions of Private Simoni Aleksidze, a first year conscript." the officer said, "Private Aleksidze took a position single handedly, and has thus allowed us a foothold."
"Get this boy a commendation!" Maksimov, the politruk ordered. "First action and he does that, he'll get a medal. From Tiblissi is he?"
"Yes comrade."
"Alright," Kotrov snapped tiredly while nursing yet another bottle, "What's next."
"What if, we used assault groups, small fireteams like we did in Afghanistan?" a major spoke up. "Supported by a T-62 or T-55."
"Assault groups could work," Kotrov muttered pensively, rubbing bleary eyes. "Small teams maneuvering under armor support...cuts down on casualties from their damn laser guns."
A sergeant nearby nodded. "And it plays to our strengths - we scrap better in close quarters than long-range pissing contests."
"Exactly." The major tapped their crude sandtable map. "We feed fireteams into these side alleys under tank overwatch. Flushes the remaining bastards out into the open."
Kotrov considered, swigging murky coffee for a jolt. "I like it. Keep the initiative on our terms, not ceding more ground. Maksimov!"
The political officer looked up from scribbling notes. "Yes comrade colonel?"
"Pass the word - we're staging assault groups as a vanguard. I want them mobilized within the hour for a second push."
"It will be done." Maksimov saluted and departed at a brisk clip.
Kotrov turned back to his command staff, some hope to kindle in tired eyes again. "Alright, let's finalize these groupings. Time to take the fight back to those fancy-gunned pricks and finish this village takeover."
A ragged chorus of assents greeted his words. Blood and honor demanded nothing less, after all. The counterattack was on.
"you want me to do what?" Izolda Tsitsishvili thought she'd misheard and couldn't exactly believe what her ears were hearing. The tank commander pulled herself out of the T-55AM's cupola.
"Orders from CO." The runner said breathlessly. "Your tank is to support an Assault Group."
"Honey, this is a t-55." she drawled sarcastically.
"Hey, I don't make the orders, just follow 'em, that's the job for the Vostokvaks up in command."
Bertha, her loader peeked out of the cupola, "Lt is he giving you trouble?"
Izolda leveled an unimpressed look at the messenger. "You tell Kotrov if he wants to send 'assault groups' in on an enemy position, he should probably give them a tank that won't crumple like cheap beer cans against laser guns, yeah?"
Bertha smothered a chortle. The runner turned a delicate shade of pink.
"Look, kid, I get it. Brass wants blood and glory. But this tin can do fuck all except get those boys roasted alive." Izolda softened her tone, clapping the runner's shoulder. "Just pass word we'll support how we can from back here. No sense throwing soldier lives away for no gain."
The runner blinked, apparently unused to objection from the rank and file. But he nodded reluctantly. "Da, lieutenant. I'll let the colonel know."
Izolda watched him jog off, scrubbing a weary hand down her face as Bertha handed her a mug of sludgy tea. "Think he'll listen?"
Bertha snorted. "When's the last time any political mouth-breather listened to common sense? We'll be lucky if he doesn't court-martial you just for having balls enough to question him."
Izolda sighed, staring toward the village and wondering how many of her countrymen wouldn't be returning. 'Just have to do our jobs and keep our heads down, I guess. Stupid glory hounds, the lot of them." She took a bracing gulp of tea, fingers tightening around the mug. Time to pray to whatever gods might listen and hope for the best.
Another Chapter rewritten, this one was extremely fun to write as I now incorporated the Characters of the Famed SM Stirling novel Marching through Georgia. It's a fun read/ If there are problems with realism or the chapter itself, do tell in the comments.