“I will, sir.”
On the far side of the chamber, Gaunt saw Scout Sergeant Mkoll closing his final briefing with the Tanith scouts, the regiment’s elite troopers. He made his way over, passing Doc Dorden and Surgeon Ana Curth, who were inoculating every trooper in turn with altitude sickness shots — acetazolamide, their systems more than used to it since the Holy Depths of Hagia — together with counter-toxin boosters and an anti airsickness drug.
Dorden was tossing spent drug vials into a plastic tray “You had a shot yet, colonel?” he asked Gaunt, fitting a fresh glass bulb into the metal frame of his pneumatic needle.
Deliberately, Gaunt hadn’t. The venerable doctor had visited him in his cabin half an hour earlier to administer the shot, but Gaunt considered it more appropriate for him to be seen taking it in front of the men.
Dorden was just acting out his prearranged part.
Gaunt peeled off his glove and hauled back his sleeve.
Dorden fired the delivery spike into the meat of Gaunt’s exposed forearm and then swabbed the blood-welling dot with a twist of gauze. Gaunt made sure he didn’t flinch.
“Any shirkers?” he whispered to Dorden as he slid his sleeve back down.
“A few. They’ll bayonet anything, but the sight of a needle—” Gaunt laughed.
“Keep it going. Time’s against us.”
Gaunt nodded to Curth as he moved on. Like Dorden, she wouldn’t be making the drop. Instead, she’d have the unenviable task of waiting in the Nimbus’s empty, silent infirmary for the wounded to roll in.
“The Emperor protect you, Colonel-Commissar,” she said.
“Thank you, Ana. Let him guide your work when the time comes.”
Gaunt liked Curth, and not because she was one of the most attractive things in the regiment. She was good. Damn good. Fething good, as Corbec might say.
And she’d left a rewarding life in Vervunhive to tend the Tanith First.
Delayed slightly by goodwill exchanges for troopers like Domor, Derin, Tarnash and the stalwart flame-trooper Brostin, Gaunt finally reached the gathering of scouts.
They stood around Sergeant Mkoll in an impassive circle. Bonin, Mkvenner, Doyl, Caober, Baen, Hwlan, Mkeller, Vahgnar, Leyr and the others. Not necessarily the best fighters in the regiment but the reason for its reputation. Stealth. Special operations. And, so far, all Tanith-born. No Verghastite recruit had yet displayed enough raw ability to join Mkoll’s elite scouts. Only a few, Cuu amongst them, had shown any real potential.
Gaunt stepped in amongst them and they all drew to salute. He waved them down with a smile.
“Stand easy. I’m sure I’m just repeating what Mkoll has told you, but I have a gut feeling this will be down to you. The lord general, and the other regimental commanders, are looking at this like a nut to crack by force. Wrong. I think it’s going to take smarts. This is city fighting. Cirenholm may be stuck up on a fething mountain, but it’s a city nevertheless. You’ve got to kill clever. Lead us in. Make the place ours. The lord general refused the idea of giving anyone under command rank the city plans, but I’m breaking that.”
Gaunt handed out tissue-thin copies of the schematics to the scouts.
“Feth knows why he doesn’t want you to see this. Probably doesn’t want troopers acting with initiative over and above command. Well, I do. Here’s the thing. This won’t be a fight where command can sit and shout orders. This isn’t a battlefield. We’re going into a complex structure full of hostiles. I want it closed down and secured in the name of the God-Emperor as fast as possible. That means on-the-hoof guidance. That means scouting and recon. That means decision making on the ground. When we’ve won the day, burn those maps. Eat them. Wipe your arses with them and flush them away. Tell the lord general, if he asks, you got lucky.”
Gaunt paused. He looked round, took them eye by eye. They returned his look.
“I don’t believe in luck. Well… I do, as it goes. But I don’t count on it. I believe in tight combat practice and intelligent war. I believe we make our own luck in this heathen galaxy. And I believe that means using you men to the limit. If any of you… I mean, any of you… voxes an order or instruction, I’ll make sure it’s followed. The squad leaders and commanders know that. Rawne, Daur and Corbec know that. What we take tonight, we take the Ghost way. The Tanith way. And you are the fething brains of that way.”
He paused again. “Any questions?”
The scouts shook their heads.
“Give them hell,” said Gaunt.
The scouts saluted and strode off to join their squads. Gaunt and Mkoll shook hands. “You’re first in,” said Gaunt. “Seems as if I am.”
“Do this for Tanith.”
“Oh, count on it,” Mkoll said.
Alert lights were coming on. A buzzer sounded. The Ghosts, squad by squad, rose up and began to file out into the departure bay. A last few shouts and good lucks bounced between drop-teams.
Gaunt saw Trooper Caffran break ranks for a second to kiss the mouth of the Verghastite Tona Criid. She broke the kiss and slapped him away with a laugh. They were heading for separate drop-ships.
He saw Brostin helping Neskon to sit his flamer tanks just right over his back.
He saw Troopers Lillo and Indrimmo leading the Vervunhivers in one last hive war-chant.
He saw Rawne and Feygor marching their detail through the boarding gate.
He saw Kolea and Varl, each at the head of his own squad, exchanging boasts and dares as they filed to their designated ships.
He saw Seena and Arilla, the gun-girls from Verghast, carrying the light support stubber between them.
He saw the snipers: Larkin, Nessa, Banda, Rilke, Ment… each one marked out amid the slowly moving files by the awkwardly bagged long-lasrifles they carried.
He saw Colm Corbec on the far side of the muster room, clapping his hands above his bearded head and raising up a battle anthem.
He saw Captain Daur, joining in with the singing as he rushed to pull on his balaclava. Daur left his cap on one of the vacant benches.
He saw them all: Lillo, Garond, Vulli, Mkfeyd, Cocoer, Sergeant Theiss, Mkteeg, Dremmond, Sergeant Haller, laughing and singing, Sergeant Bray, Sergeant Ewler, Unkin, Wheln, Guheen, Raess… all of them.
He saw Milo, far away through a sea of faces.
They nodded to each other. That was all that was needed.
He saw Sergeant Burone running back for the gloves he had forgotten.
He saw Trooper Cuu.
The cold, cat eyes.
Ibram Gaunt had always believed that it was a commander’s duty to pray for all his men to return safely.
Not Cuu. If Cuu fell at Cirenholm, Gaunt thought, God-Emperor forgive me, I won’t mourn.
Gaunt took off his cap and pushed it into his jacket. He turned to follow the retreating files out of the muster bay. Passing the entrance of the Blessing Chapel, he was almost knocked down by the shambling bulk of Agun Soric, the old, valiant Verghast gang boss.
“Sir!”
“As you were, sergeant. Get to your men.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Just taking a last blessing.”
Gaunt smiled down at the short, thick-set man. Soric wore an eye-patch and disdained augmetic work. He had been an ore-smeltery boss on Verghast, and then a scratch squad leader. Soric had courage enough for an entire company of men.
“Turn around,” said Gaunt, and Soric did so smartly. Gaunt patted down Soric’s harness, and made a slight adjustment to the buckles of his webbing. “Get going,” he said.
“Yes sir,” said Sonic, lurching away after the main teams. “Hold on there,” said a dry, old voice from the Blessing Chapel. Gaunt turned.
Ayatani Zweil, wizened and white-bearded, hopped out beside him, and put his hands either side of Gaunt’s face. “Not now, father—”
“Hush! Let me look in your eyes, tell you to kill or be killed, and make the sign of the aquila at least.”
Gaunt smiled. The regiment had acquired A
yatani Zweil on Hagia, and he had become their chaplain. He was imhava ayatani, a roving priest dedicated to Saint Sabbat, in whose name and memory this entire crusade was being fought. Gaunt didn’t really understand what made the old, white-bearded priest tick, but he valued his company.
“The Emperor watch you, and the beati too,” said Zweil. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Apart from killing, slaughtering, engaging in firefights and generally being a warrior, you mean?”
“Apart from all that, naturally.” Zweil smiled. “Go and do what you do. And I’ll stay here and wait to do what I do. You realise my level of workload depends upon your success or failure?”
“I’ve never thought of it that way, but thank you for putting it into such perspective.”
“Gaunt?” the old, ragged priest’s voice suddenly dipped and became stilled.
“What?”
“Trust Bonin.”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘What’ me. The saint herself, the beati, told me… you must trust Bonin.”
“Alright. Thanks.”
The final siren was sounding. Gaunt patted the old priest’s arm and hurried away to the departure bay.
The departure bay was the Nimbus’s primary flight deck. Down its immense, echoing length lay drop-ships. Sixty drop-ships: heavy, trans-atmospheric shuttles with a large door hatch in each flank. The deck crews were still milling around them. Engines were test-starting. The previous day, each one of the drop-ships had been wearing the colour pattern of the Phantine Skyborne. Now each one was drabbed down with an anti-reflective pitch. The Ghosts were mounting up.
Fifty drop-troopers were appointed to each transport, two squads of twenty-five per ship. The squads mounted, in reverse order, via the hatch they would eventually exit through. Staging officers held up metal poles with stencilled number plates on the end so that the Ghosts could form up in the right detail, at the right ship, and on the correct side for mounting.
There were still a few minutes to wait for some squads. They sat down on the apron next to their appointed craft, daubing on camo-paint, making a last few equipment checks or just sitting still, their minds far away. The point men from each squad were checking, and in some cases, re-tying the jump-ropes secured above the hatch-doors. The ground crews had already done this perfectly well, but the point men took their responsibilities for the ropes very solemnly. If they and their comrades were going to depend on a knot for their survival, it had better be one they had tied themselves.
It was twenty-one forty hours. By now, on two of the Nimbus’s sister drogues, the Urdeshi storm-troops would already be aboard their drops.
Gaunt checked his chronometer again as he walked down the deck to his drop-ship. Admiral Ornoff had just voxed down that the operation was still running precisely to schedule, but there was a report that the cross wind had picked up a little in the last thirty minutes. That would make transit rough and roping out harder, and it would clear away more quickly the sensor-foxing chaff that Halo Flight had spread earlier on.
Gaunt called in Hark, Rawne and Corbec for a final word.
All of them looked ready, though Rawne was eager to get to his flight Hark was still very unhappy about the disastrous ammunition situation. After rationing out all the size threes held by the regiment and scouring the Munitorium stores of all the drogues, the Ghosts had a grand total of three clips per trooper. Due to a mis-relayed order, the taskforce Munitoria had stocked with size fives, the type used by both the Urdeshi and the Phantine. There had not been time to send back to Hessenville for extras, and no way of rearming the Tanith with alternative weapons.
“It could kill morale,” said Hark. “I’ve heard a lot of grumbling.”
“It may actually focus them,” said Corbec. “They know that more than ever, they have to make everything count.”
Commissar Hark didn’t seem too convinced by the colonel’s take, but he had not been with the regiment long enough to fully appreciate Colm Corbec’s instinctive wisdom. Hark had been attached to them on Hagia, essentially as the instrument of a command structure bent on bringing Gaunt down. But Hark had redeemed himself, fighting valiantly alongside the Ghosts at Bhavnager and the battle for the Shrinehold. Gaunt had kept him on after that. With Gaunt’s leadership role split between command and discipline, it was useful to have a dedicated commissar at his side.
A buzzer began sounding. Some of the men whooped.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” said Gaunt.
It was twenty-two hundred. The first wave of drop-ships, carrying the mass of the Urdeshi forces, spilled out of their drogues into the high altitude night.
Colonel Zhyte, aboard drop 1A, craned to look out of the thick-glassed port. He could see little except the inky volume of the sky and the occasional flare of thrusters from the drop-ships around him. The drogues were blacked out and invisible. There had been a tense last few moments between final boarding and launch as all lights on the landing deck shut down so that the launch doors could be opened without giving away position. An uneasy twilight, oppressive, ending only with the violent thump of gravity when the drop-ships plunged away.
Zhyte moved forward into the cockpit, past the rows of his troopers sitting in the craft’s main body. In the low-level green illumination, their faces looked pale and ill.
In the cockpit, visibility was a little better. The lightless, limitless cold ahead was punctuated by sudden and swift-passing curls of smoky cloud or little darting wisps. Zhyte could see thirty or forty wavering, dull orange glows spread out ahead and below: the engine glares of the drop-ship formation.
The ship rattled and vibrated sporadically, and the pilot and his servitor co-pilot murmured to each other over the vox. That crosswind was picking up, and there was a hint of headwind now too.
“Over the DZ in forty-one minutes,” the pilot told Zhyte. The Urdeshi colonel knew that estimate would creep if the headwind got any stronger. The heavily laden drop-ships would be straining into it.
Zhyte studied the sensor plate, looking at the milky display of formation ships, scared of seeing something else. If an enemy cloud-fighter lucked onto them now, it would be a massacre.
Twenty-two ten Imperial. The exit doors of the drop-ships had been shut and locked three minutes before. Everything was vibrating with the noise of the massed transporter engines.
In drop-ship 2A, Gaunt took his seat a fold-down metal bracket at one end of the row of men. Someone was muttering an Imperial prayer. Several of the men were turning over aquila symbols in their shaking hands.
A curt voice spoke over the vox-link. Gaunt couldn’t make out what it said over the roar, but he knew what it meant.
There was a gut-flipping lurch as they seemed to fall, and then a slamming wall of gravity that threw them backwards.
They were in flight.
They were en route.
This was it.
Commander Jagdea pulled a hard left turn and her two wing-men swooped with her. The three Lightnings of the Imperial Phantine Air Defence banked sharply and swept in alongside the dispersal drogue Boreas.
Jagdea had eight three-wing flights in the air now, escorts for the wallowing shoals of drop-ships lumbering and climbing away from the stationary drogues.
Visibility was so bad she’d been flying by instruments alone, but now she could see the twinkling burner flares of the troop transports, hundreds of them glowing like coals against the boiling darkness below.
“Control, Umbra Leader,” she said into her vox. “I see a little spread in the troop formations. Urge them to correct for the crosswind.”
“Acknowledged, Umbra Leader.”
Some of the drop-ships had wandered on release, driven by the gathering turbulence. They were straggling out to the east.
Keep them tight or we’ll lose you, she willed.
Every few seconds, she scanned the dome of sky above for contacts. As far as they knew, Cirenholm had no idea what was coming its way. But enemy air
craft might blow that advantage at any moment.
Not while she was airborne, Jagdea decided.
Halo Flight had circled around to the west for the return loop to the drogue hangars, following a wide arc to avoid crossing the massed, inbound formations of drop-ships.
Captain Viltry adjusted the airspeed of his Marauder. They were running into toxic smog banks, and nuggets of dirt were rattling off his hull armour.
There was a brief vox blurt.
“Halo Leader, say again.”
Viltry waited. He felt himself tense up.
“Halo Leader to Halo Flight, say again.”
A few answers came back, all of them confused.
“Halo Leader. Halo Flight double up your visual checking.”
“Halo Three, Halo Leader. Have you seen Halo Five?”
Viltry paused. He glanced down at Gammil, and his navigator checked the scanner carefully before shaking his head.
Shit. “Halo Leader, Halo Five. Halo Five. Respond. Suken, where the hell are you?”
White noise filled Viltry’s ears.
“Halo Leader, Halo Four. Can you see Suken from where you are?”
“Hold on, Halo Leader.” A long pause. “No sign, Halo Leader. Nothing on the scope.” Where the hell had—
“Contact! Contact! Eight eight one and closing!” The shout came from Halo Two.
Viltry jerked around, searching the darkness, frantic.
There was a flash to his port. He looked round in time to see a little chain of tracer fire sinking away down into the clouds like a flock of birds.
There was another wordless fizzle of static and then an air-burst ignited in the sky two hundred metres to Viltry’s starboard wing.
Something very bright and fast passed right in front of him.
“Halo Three’s gone! Halo Three’s gone!” he heard one of his gunners yelling.
“Break, break, break!” he ordered. The world turned upside down and Viltry was pressed back into his grav-seat by the force of the spinning dive. He saw the dying fireball that had been Halo Three streaming away in the headwind in bands of blue flame.