Minerva leapt out of the Thunderhawk and was greeted by the expected flaming wreckage and corpses that traditionally accompanied a Thunderhawk attack mission. The Helstrikes had blasted apart a pair of Hydras, and the heavy bolters had sent the surviving infantry running for cover. Which wouldn't help them much.
"Controlled fire," Minerva reminded her squads. "Don't damage the infrastructure." The good thing about bolter shells was that they didn't over penetrate like solid shots, but a stray bolt could inflict a great deal of damage.
The building was heavily built, but only fortified in the manner of civilian infrastructure. It would resist a truck bomb, but didn't have embrasures or killing fields. The defending beastmen had dug trenches, but that was all, and they were oriented outwards.
"Artemis, clear the trenches," Minerva ordered. "Everyone else, head inside."
The doors were adamantium, but not thick enough to resist a melta charge, and in seconds they were in. Autogun fire rattled off Minerva's breastplate as she charged through the breach, and she carefully picked off the handful of beastmen making their stand inside.
Something felt off with the resistance. Fortifying every single station to this extent would be a significant commitment of resources, but it was also obviously inadequate to repel the Amazons or a serious air raid. It wouldn't take a seer to know the Imperial forces would use one of those.
"Keep an eye out for explosives," Minerva instructed. "This may be a trap."
"All clear in the entryway," Arachne replied.
"Could they detonate the power systems?" Minerva asked.
"Not to any real effect," Arachne told her. "It would ruin the machinery, but it wouldn't bring down the structure or pierce our armor."
Minerva considered her options for a moment, but there wasn't really any choice. If it was a trap, they'd simply have to break through it, and there weren't any alternate routes in the building that would fit an Astartes squad. If there was an ambush, it would probably be in the main power chamber, with plentiful cover that they couldn't afford to damage. She gave the order to proceed.
The next door blew open easily, and Minerva realized that in all her concerns about sorcerous interference or curiously well-drilled slave soldiers, she'd neglected to consider the most basic fact about the Thousand Sons.
o - o -O - o – o
Calix looked at his auspex and cursed. The enemy fighters had blown through the outer fighter screen without stopping to engage, and were tearing into the bomber flights. At least, that was what it looked like; the auspex was fuzzed with ghosts.
His instincts urged him to maneuver in close to the rest of the flight, where their combined tail-gun fire might drive off the attackers, but that was impossible in these winds. He'd already seen a collision take out two bombers. Scattering wasn't an option either; if they came at the ships separately, they'd be picked off by the ships' anti-air defenses.
Breaking off and going above the storm might save them, but the commissar wasn't going to approve that. They'd never find the ships again. His only chance was to complete the run.
"Tail, keep the bats off us," he ordered, then turned his attention back to the controls. The storm was still trying to throw him off-course, but they were getting close. Just a couple more minutes. Surely the enemy fighters couldn't kill them all.
They seemed determined to try. It was like the wind didn't apply to them, moving smoothly into kill position after kill position, evading the Lightnings with almost trivial ease. One of them was heading towards Calix.
He burst through the clouds, only to find his view equally obscured by rain. The cursed purple lighting flashed around him, but the wind seemed to weaken slightly. He scanned the auspex again. If his guidance system was right…
There! A large contact on the surface, exactly where the reports said. Calix adjusted his dive, bearing down on the target. A double-handful of bombers were emerging behind him, following in as best they could They'd have to get dangerously close to ensure a hit. He could see the muzzle flashes of autocannon, lines of tracers rising from them.
The enemy fighter was still following them, determined to make its kills even with the risk of friendly fire. Calix's tail gunner opened up, shaking the Marauder. Calix felt a strange calm descending, even as friendly contacts fell away. His fate was in the hands of the Emperor now. Just a little further…
He felt the bombs release, a moment before Harpy tore his craft apart in a storm of autocannon shells. Seconds later, the bombs slammed into the forward turret of the dreadnought.
o - o -O - o – o
The airstrike proved costly for the Imperial air wing, with over forty percent of the bombers involved in the strike lost, largely due to the unexpected intervention of Archenemy fighters. Due to the poor auspex conditions, it is impossible to establish with certainty how many fighters were aloft, but estimates indicate no more than two dozen.
Nevertheless, the strike was decisive. At least nine enemy dreadnoughts were successfully hit, with two sunk outright. Three others were so crippled as to no longer be able to effectively engage, and attempted to withdraw, only to sink or run aground. Two more lost a main battery turret.
The Imperial fleet was not immediately aware of the extent of the damage, having only detected part of the strike arriving. With no communication with higher authority, captain Allison assumed command and ordered the fleet to remain concentrated and engage the enemy more closely.
The captain was heavily criticized in the aftermath of the battle for employing such a straightforward tactic, but in truth the storm conditions allowed for little else. Any dispersal of the formation would have risked leaving fleet elements out of contact, and even the engagements to date had not established the enemy fleet's formation with certainty.
Disengaging and waiting for the storm to disperse was also not a viable option; should its infernal masters be unable to maintain it, they would surely withdraw their fleet. That would force the Imperial forces to assault Seasgate from land, without a proper port for supplying their heavy guns and with the possibility of a naval breakout with additional sorcerous support at any time.
Despite the reversal of their initial firepower advantage, the bulk of the Archenemy fleet stood their ground rather than attempting to withdraw. The resulting battle was fought at incredibly close range for a naval engagement, with dreadnoughts at times closing to within a kilometer of their targets. Armor belts designed for resisting attacks at a distance proved inadequate, and armor-piercing shells punched through easily.
Losses on both sides were extremely heavy; with the force of the storm flooding from any breaches was extremely rapid, outpacing pumps that would normally have kept it to a manageable level. The close quarters also made it difficult for crippled ships to disengage. In the end, only three Imperial dreadnoughts, Fearless among them, survived to return to port. Not a single Archenemy dreadnought escaped, and the handful of surviving light ships were unable to contest the assault on Seasgate.
o - o -O - o – o
"Traitor Astartes!" Atlantae snapped, bringing up her bolter with a speed no mortal could match. She was too slow, and blazing bolter rounds slammed into her breastplate. Atlantae crumpled to the floor, crippled or dead. Minerva couldn't tell, and for the moment it didn't matter.
She could see five of them, blue and gold armored figures, with their curious headdresses. Probably there were nine in the room, all covering the door. They'd have a psyker to accompany them, but she didn't see one. Minerva cursed herself for a fool; she was so concerned about collateral damage she hadn't bothered to bring heavy weaponry or even kraken bolts. Now she had to bring down a traitor squad with standard mass-reactives.
Minerva snapped a frag grenade from its place mag-clamped to her waist and flung it into the room even as she aimed her bolter one-handed. For her first target, she picked the only Thousand Son she could see who was wielding something other than a bolter, some baroque pattern of assault cannon. It was still spinning up when Minerva's bolt smashed through an eyepiece. He fell like a puppet with its strings cut. The grenade detonated. It didn't drop any of the Thousand Sons, but they wavered momentarily.
The Amazons didn't hold still, as they might have against a mortal foe. They dashed back and forth, zigzagging to throw off their enemies' aim, not stopping as they fired. Countless hours of training let their bolts fly true mid-movement.
Mortal foes might have had trouble tracking the Amazons, but these were Astartes, or had been. At this range, hitting a moving target was well within their capabilities. Minerva herself took a hit to her shoulder-plate that melted through, and she felt a blazing pain in her left arm. Other Amazons were less fortunate, taking direct hits to their torsos or helmets.
The battle was over in less than a minute, leaving seven Amazons fallen on the ground and all the Thousand Sons collapsed. It was an honorable triumph over the most hated of foes, and would be remembered in the halls of the chapter. Minerva just wished it had been less costly.
Leaving Vesta to her duty, Minerva voxed a warning to the other squads and went to investigate the enemy dead. Dust was spilling out of the breaches in their armor, and Minerva soon found the armor itself was empty. So, the chapter records were right about that. They appeared to also have been right about needing a sorcerer to command them; there was a dead beastman with a staff in the room, peppered with fragments.
"Are they actually dead?" Arachne asked dubiously. "Permanently, I mean."
"There's no records of them spontaneously reanimating," Minerva replied. "Whether they can be repaired is another matter; the Thousand Sons don't seem to be running out of them." She thought about it for a moment. "Can you get us through the remaining doors without melta charges?"
"They're internal doors," Arachne said dismissively. "My power axe will be more than sufficient."
"Good." Minerva switched her vox to transmit to Atlantae's squad. "Put a melta charge on each traitor suit."
While they set to work, Minerva moved to consult with Vesta. "How many?" she asked.
"Four dead," Vesta said. "Eurydice and Atlanate are in sus-an comas. Idaea is unconscious but not comatose. We may lose Eurydice on the return trip. All gene-seed recoverable."
"Artemis, bring the scouts in," Minerva ordered. "Cover Vesta and get the dead and injured back to the Thunderhawk. I'm continuing in."
"I should take a look at your arm," Vesta said.
"Later," Minerva replied. "We don't have much time."
o - o -O - o – o
Arachne carefully secured the last relay in the Thunderhawk's upper hold, then stepped into the forward compartment. The mood was decidedly less than celebratory, despite the successful mission. Vesta had removed large portions of Eurydice's armor and was frantically working to stabilize her while Artemis tended to Idaea. Minerva was absorbed in communicating with the other squads, and everyone else watched the wounded tensely.
It was probably the unexpectedness of the action that was contributing to the general air of gloom. Every Astartes would die in the Emperor's service one day, but no one had expected that to be today. Add to that the fact that they'd only defeated empty suits of armor, which hardly felt like much of a victory, and the mood was positively grim.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much Arachne could do to improve it. She was hardly trained as a chaplain, and speaking would draw recriminations over her insistence on avoiding collateral damage. Arachne stood by her position, especially after having seen the relay station in person, but didn't expect the other Amazons to appreciate the importance of the site. Best to remain silent.
Instead of speaking, she concentrated on the damage done to the Amazon's armor. It wasn't the standard blast pattern of bolter impacts. The armor had warped and melted where it was struck, as though exposed to immense heat. The fire had obviously been supernatural in nature; she'd have to cleanse the damaged pieces thoroughly before putting them back in service.
There had been no question of trying to retrieve the Thousand Sons' armor. Perhaps if it had been another Traitor Legion they'd have considered turning it over to the Inquisition, but Arachne was not going to allow such tainted equipment aboard a chapter Thunderhawk even for the time it would take to transport it to the Inquisitor's cruiser.
o - o -O - o – o
"Melta charges?" Althrax asked darkly.
"On every suit," Ulthrak confirmed. "Clamped to the chestpieces." He kept his voice steady with an effort; the master didn't make a habit of casually killing subordinates, but there were exceptions. Especially ones who hadn't brought any good news recently. "Some of the limbs and helmets survived, but all the torsos are a total loss."
"Bring back every scrap you can recover," Althrax growled. "Thoth, collect the dust. When we're done here, we can repair them."
"The tactical situation is growing increasingly untenable," Thoth said. "Perhaps we should withdraw." Ulthrak tensed. The masters could open portals between worlds, but only briefly. If they left, most of the army was staying behind, and probably its general too.
"This isn't over," Althrax snapped. "We still have an entire continent, and they still don't have any sorcerers who can match us. We just need to find that damned librarium."