The Chaos Pact was no stranger to a good old-fashioned artillery duel. Herodor’s surface was forever scarred by shell craters and ruined bastions. Yet they never expected the speed of the incoming cruise missile that caught them in the middle of hitching up their gun pieces to their transports. Screening troops carrying MANPADs in anticipation of a Mandalorian raid made a noble if futile attempt to shoot down the incoming missile.
The cruise missile directly struck a speeder truck packed with shells. The resulting detonation atomized nearly seventy artillerymen instantly. Flaming metal fell from the sky like burning petals. But it wasn’t the death of the artillerymen that bit the hardest for they were replaceable. What wasn’t was the captured Carreras G51 communications array that the battery had been using to hone in on their fire. Until a replacement could be brought in they would just be firing blind.
"Come on you dogs!" The Astdevim Company Commander hollered to his men as blaster bolts whizzed barely inches past him, "Your Warmaster needs you, troopers forward!"
The blaster fire they were facing was absurd. Even with bounding and covering fire, the riflemen of the 82nd were still enduring heavy casualties but endure they would. Some men hauled up the bodies of their dead and dying comrades to use as literal meat shields as they advanced, muttering prayers of thanks. Every step into that torrent felt like they were clambering up a steep hill.
Direct strikes from the heavy repeaters sent men flying as if an invisible rope around their waist had turned taunt. Men were there one moment and ceased to exist in any form but ash the next thanks to disruptor fire.
The Mors Ferro Heavy Battle tanks moved closer to both provide physical cover to the infantry that had fallen behind and get a better shot on the Mandalorian battle positions. Inside the steel beasts, it was chaos, the auto-loaders screamed as they slammed 200-kilogram shells into the smoking breech and commanders shrieked at the top of their lungs new targets for the gunners.
Celt Saxon
's artillery barely made a difference in noise levels as shells now began to bracket the breakthrough tanks. Infantry that had been taking cover next to them scattered or died.
Inch by inch, meter by meter, death by death, they got closer. Close enough for the Pioneers to come forward. As specialized engineering assault troops, they wore much heavier armor than their compatriots, enough to deflect most blaster fire but not thermal detonators and grav-charges of
Aloy Vizsla
. Body parts and burning metal chunks were sent sky-high. Yet they endured with several dozen getting close enough to lob demolition packs and bundle grenades before perishing. Flamethrowers spewed napalm and choking black smoke in an attempt to create a smoke and heat screen for advancing troops.
A resounding bellow came from the Pact lines at the sight of this and the entire frontline surged forward. Soldiers placed away their rifles for wire-wrapped clubs, curved sabers, and humming vibro-scythes. They came forth to finally crush the Mandalorians like a tidal wave smashing a sand castle but at the last possible moment were thrown back as if they had struck a lagoon wall.
Fragmentation warheads detonated over their heads in a spray of miniature steel. Many stumbled but quickly righted themselves, laughing at the pathetic Mandalorian attempt to stop them. Then the nerve gas came in. It didn’t matter, chemical warfare had been the norm during their planet’s brutal unification, until they realized that their gas masks and fume hoods had all been punctured.
Then they began screaming. At least until their throats swelled shut until their lungs were filled with their own acid bile, until their spines shattered as they collapsed into seizures. In mere seconds the line had been shattered as ground officers that had somehow survived ordered a retreat. They were not the raving and expendable Redeemers, to continue onward would be pointless and wasteful.
The Mors Ferro battle tanks accelerated forward to try to cover the withdrawal but in doing so suddenly found themselves overextended and without infantry support, leaving them vulnerable to the
Celt Saxon
striking team.
“Sir, they’ve taken heavy losses,” Sephuneuth said, “Reports indicate up to four hundred casualties.”
“They’ve done their purpose.” Commander Enoch squinted. “They’ve bought us the time we needed. Reinforce them with five companies. I want them to regroup and resume the attack in the next half hour. Leave the wounded behind if need be”
About a kilometer to the west, the right of the Pact line, there was a line of ridges and mountains that could serve as an overwatch position for several platoons against the defenses near the Mandalorian bunker. But the approach was so treacherous, made up of wind-swept razor-jagged rocks and sheer cliffs, that it was far more than reasonable that no significant force could be brought up to that ridgeline.
Unless of course, your enemy had voidborne capabilities. About thirty AAL-1971/9.1 Troop Transport braved missiles and flak fire as they hugged the ground as close as possible and fanatical pilots made insane evasive maneuvers. Yet despite this, they suffered horrific losses. Some melted like falling snowflakes in sudden sunlight and some blew out in noisy, brittle flashes and pelted the mountains with metal hail. Some fell into the white snow banks, trailing plaintive smoke, or buried themselves like tracer rounds in the sheer rockfaces.
Four hundred Pact troopers died without ever seeing their enemy.
Lives were valuable to the Chaos Pact but with their value came acceptance for their expenditure.
But some twelve-odd landers managed to make it to the ridgeline. Nearly every single transport they brought up was heavily damaged and had to make emergency crash landings. Rushing from dropped ramps or hastily pried exit holes, Two hundred Pact troopers quickly rushed out to set up heavy weapons and deploy sniper teams. At once they began pouring down shoulder-launched missiles, heavy repeater fire, and light mountain guns sending high-explosive shells right on the Mandalorian positions.
However, their position overall was isolated even if dolling out withering fire and well dug in against counter-battery fire, practically begging for a Mandalorian counter-attack to slaughter them.
And that was the purpose because a single transport, a heavily armored Katarn-class shuttle, had survived the flak intact and deployed slightly behind the other transports. Locked into the crash cages, the fifteen figures sat unmoving despite the barrage that their transport had endured. There were only fifteen because that was what was left of the Wolfpack, worn down after uncountable battles to leave only these few. But that was the way it was supposed to be for none could replace the lost. Nobody could ever replace their brothers and sisters.
They were clad in near-black
Wolfsbane armor with silver finishes on the edges. Armor plates were strapped onto the front forearms and legs. Drapes of ammo belts and munition pouches secured on black nylon webbing across their chest. The chest plates themselves were thick, and weighty, with the Holy Emblem of Chaos etched upon their pectorals in dulled-down gold. Most notable of all were their iron grotesque masks, carved expertly by the most elite masons of the Pact. They all bore the very same hooked nose, steel tears dripping down unmoving cheeks, and a wide sneer that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. Their empty eyes glowed a fierce crimson, the color of blood.
The ramp opened and wordlessly the fifteen unlocked their cages and stepped out into the winter wastes. Whirring and clanking noises emitted from them as servos in their limbs assisted them in managing the heavy weight of their gear.
<<We will die here>> one of them spoke, voicebox squawking a garish genderless tone.
<<I can feel it in my bones. This planet will be our grave.>>
<<Then let us make this our Mount Etna.>>
They took up positions just out of sight of the main force on the ridgeline. They made last-minute checks on their heavy weapons before powering down their Wolfsbane Heavy Armor to hide their signature from the Mandalorians.
The Death Brigadiers waited for their prey to make the first move.
The Chaos Pact had the numbers and Enoch would not waste his men in mere frontal attacks. As the frontal attack on the bunker began in earnest and enfilading fire rained down from the ridgeline, he deployed his left hook. It was vast open ground with only a few snow banks breaking up the approach to the left flank of the bunker.
But Pathfinders deployed several hours beforehand that the snow was packed, thick enough to support medium armor.
Forty TT-37 Landspeeder Transports raced as fast as they could over the open. The land speeders had been stripped down to the bare minimum for speed and to accommodate the two squads of mounted infantry that each carried. It was a treacherous job as soldiers had to hold onto the railings lest a single bump send them flying off. Not to mention the lack of any cover at all. Those already killed by incoming fire had their corpses shifted to the front to be used as shields for the rest.
Escorting the land speeders were four repulsor kill teams, each composed of a pair of T2-B Repulsor Tanks, that tried to suppress the Mandalorian positions with their quad light blaster cannons. But their gun stabilizers had been eroded over decades of continuous use and lack of spare parts so while the fire was withering, it was largely inaccurate. However, the volume has an accuracy of its own.
The speeders aimed to practically ram into the Mandalorian lines to negate the power of their chemical artillery and render their firepower moot unless they were suicidal to fire on their troops. And if they had the will, Enoch was far more than willing to pay the price. Ten of his Pact troopers for the corpse of the Mandalorian was an acceptable trade in his eyes
Enoch knew the next few moments would be decisive. Would his frontal attack have distracted the Mandalorians long enough for his flanking attack to breach their lines? Would their commandos bite on the bait he had put on the ridgeline? If everything he had bet on failed, he would be forced into a long-term attritional battle. Nothing he was a stranger to but he was on a timetable. The Warmaster had selected him personally to rapidly seize the bunker complex…
He would not fail.
