Chapter 9: Misdirection and Ambush

Inside the macro-cannon loading bay, a sudden, cacophonous tide of Grots and Squighounds erupted from multiple access shafts simultaneously. The Grots clutched crude pistols and sputtering Stikkbombs, while the red Squigs were literal living bombs, their squelching hides strapped with lit demolition charges.

Stunned by the multi-vector assault, the Astra Militarum defenders faltered for a heartbeat. However, their discipline held. Nerves of steel and rigorous training took over as they laid down a curtain of saturation fire, raking the tunnel mouths with las-bolts and heavy bolter rounds.

Though the dispersal of their fire across so many points led to several localized breaches and mounting casualties, the Imperial line remained as unyielding as the rockcrete beneath their boots. Against the expendable fodder of Grots and Squigs, the defense was a fortress.

The assault was brutal but brief. Unable to endure the horrific rate of attrition, the Grots’ fragile morale shattered. Shrieking in terror, the survivors turned tail, dragging their remaining Squigs back into the stinking darkness of the sub-decks.

Victory, once again, belonged to the Throne. The Imperial guardsmen raised a weary cheer. The blow to their morale dealt by previous skirmishes began to heal; in the face of Imperial iron and holy promethium, the xenos filth was not invincible.

For Darrius, however, this foray was a negligible loss. Grots, Snotlings, and Squigs were the teeming refuse of the greenskin ecology. Using them to bleed the enemy’s ammunition was a tactical staple as old as the War in Heaven.

By trading "expendable units" to map the "Humie" defensive grid, Darrius had turned a profit in blood. His tactical intuition was firing with preternatural clarity; within minutes, he had triangulated the Imperial troop concentrations and the overlapping fields of fire for their heavy support.

Orks possess a peerless, genetic gift for war, yet these instincts, encoded in their very marrow, are rarely harnessed with such precision. Most greenskins are simply too joyful, too impulsive; once the Waaagh! takes hold, higher cognition is the first casualty.

The second wave began. Again, Grots and Squigs formed the vanguard, driven forward by the jagged blades of their larger cousins. Even the most reluctant Grot knew that facing the Imperial guns was a kinder fate than facing an angry Ork Boss.

This assault was far more savage than the first. Darrius had identified two primary axes of attack, exploiting gaps in the Imperial fire-lanes. Several Squighounds managed to slip through the net of light, detonating their payloads in the heart of the Imperial squads, painting the deck in the red ruin of shredded flak armor and broken men.

The Commissar roar nearly drowned out the thunder of the macro-cannons. "Move! Reinforce the perimeter! For the Emperor, blast these xenos abominations to ash!"

Suddenly, two searing lances of heat shrieked from a previously overlooked ventilation shaft. The Melta beams struck with pinpoint accuracy, slamming into two Sentinel walkers. The agile but fragile scouts were instantly transmutated into heaps of slagged, slumped iron.

"WAAAGH!"

Following the xenos war cry came a torrential downpour of lead from dozens of Shootas. This was the breach Darrius had chosen.

The Imperial defenders were momentarily paralyzed. Their suppressive fire was overwhelmed by the raw volume of Ork Dakka, and their remaining heavy weapon teams were being methodically picked off by the Melta-fire.

Seizing the opening, the armored Boyz slammed into the Imperial line. Buffered by the psychic momentum of the Waaagh! and the "fast" properties of their red-painted plating, the armored behemoths moved with terrifying speed.

Upon breaching the defenses, they acted like true demolitionists, hurling their bundles of Stikkbombs into the trenches to clear the "Humie" nests before wading in with heavy Choppas. It was a slaughter in the making.

The Astra Militarum reacted with veteran speed. A mechanized rapid-response force surged forward to plug the gap: two Leman Russ Battle Tanks acted as the iron tip of a spear, escorting five Chimera APCs into the fray.

Stikkbombs and primitive blades could not bite into the tanks’ reinforced armor. Under the booming reports of the Leman Russ’s battle cannons, the Boyz’s scrap-plate offered no protection for the soft tissue within. The Orks were being tossed aside like ragdolls by the high-explosive shells.

The Chimeras disgorged squads of elite guardsmen who formed tight fire-teams, using concentrated las-fire to isolate and execute the Orks one by one. If the momentum held, the breach would be sealed, and the sector reclaimed.

Then, two more Melta beams lashed out, slamming into the leading Leman Russ. The tank’s thick glacis plate saved it from immediate destruction, but the armor was blackened and weeping molten metal. A few more hits, and the "King of the Battlefield" would be a tomb.

A nightmare of Ork ingenuity lurched out from the shadows of the tunnel. It was a massive, distorted war machine. A Killa Kan at its core, but buried under layers of scavenged void-ship plating. It sported twin-mounted Kustom Mega-Blastas on its chassis. It was a crude, misshapen hunk of junk, but its lethality was indisputable.

The second Leman Russ swiveled its turret, its main gun barking a challenge. The shell struck the Ork monstrosity dead center. When the smoke cleared, however, only a single slab of external ablative armor had been blown away.

Inside the iron coffin, the Grot pilots and the Ork gunner shrieked with manic glee. Perched atop the machine, an Ork Spanner kicked his Grot assistants, screaming at them to lock the targeting brackets.

The Kustom Mega-Blasta spat fire again. One shot went wide, melting a hole in the deck, but the second sheared through the drive-sprocket of the first Leman Russ, immobilizing the steel beast.

The sheer combat efficacy of this "Mega-Kan" stunned the Commissar. He screamed orders, his spittle flecking the face of his vox-operator. Under his frantic direction, the Imperial forces concentrated every scrap of available armor and heavy ordnance on the Orkish walker.

The Commissar was consumed by a cold, righteous fury. He had been played by a xenos. The "stupid" brutes had used a classic pincer and misdirection. He was desperate to erase the Orkish machine to atone for his tactical lapse.

Tanks, autocannons, and missile launchers turned their fury upon the Mega-Kan, drenching it in fire and shrapnel. No amount of bolted-on scrap could withstand such a focused storm. Even if the Leman Russes only managed to strip the armor layer by layer, the machine wouldn't last ten minutes. Its mechanical arms were already sheared off, and the Orks providing screen-fire around it were being cut down in droves.

Seeing the "Grot-box" buckle under the iron storm, the Commissar felt a grim satisfaction. Once this freakish vehicle was silenced, the xenos would have nothing left to throw against his wall of steel.

But then, the world seemed to freeze.

A sound like the grinding teeth of the universe, the shriek of tearing adamantium, preceded a detonation that felt like a thunderbolt in the Commissar's ear.

A twenty-meter section of the loading bay wall was shredded like wet parchment. A white-hot wave of molten iron and overpressure followed, instantly consuming half of the Commissar’s mechanized detachment.