Chapter 86: The War Council
The rebel commanders stared at Silas in bewilderment. Why was he asking an outsider for tactical advice? Shouldn't they have kicked this scavenger out before discussing their internal defense?
Kian didn't wait for them to object. He took a final drag of his Lho-stick, stood up, and slammed a hand-drawn map onto the heavy timber table.
"Here is the PDF camp. Here is your warren," Kian said, pointing to the charcoal markings. "There is a dirt road connecting the two. Logic dictates that Winchester's company will take the direct path."
Kian reached into his rucksack and dumped a pile of heavy metal cylinders onto the map. The sound of clattering iron silenced the room.
"Industrial charges. High-explosive filler," Kian rasped. "One of these is a military-grade remote detonator. I have the trigger; the range is five kilometers. We dig a hole, bury the lot, and when the Chimera rolls over it—boom. You send the Spire-born brat back to his ancestors in pieces."
This was Kian's solution for the armored transport: a massive IED.
But Silas and the other commanders shook their heads.
"It won't work," Silas said grimly. "We've tried road-ambushes dozens of times. The PDF isn't that stupid anymore. They avoid the established paths. They'll drive across the open plains where there's no cover for a triggerman. The ground is dry, the visibility is high, and the Chimera has better off-road handling than our horses. They drive wherever they please."
Kian realized his mistake. He remembered riding with Rudolphson—the man almost went out of his way to drive through the tall grass and dirt instead of using the paved sections. It was standard anti-insurgency doctrine.
Kian shrugged, leaning back. "Fine. If you can't plant a mine, I'm out of ideas for the tank. That's all I've got for anti-armor."
He didn't mention the ceramite dust in the fuel tank or the "insult" he'd paid to the Machine Spirit. Too many ears in this shack. If one of these rebels got captured and talked, it would lead the Inquisition right back to him and Rudolphson. Besides, let them be surprised when the engine starts coughing blood—it was better for morale if they thought the Emperor himself had cursed the vehicle.
Silas picked up one of the detonators, a look of desperate iron in his eyes. "Give the explosives to us. We will find a way to bring them to the beast."
"How?" Kian asked.
"A Hussar," Silas said. "A suicide rider. He'll strap the charges to his chest and charge under the cover of a general assault. If he gets close enough to touch the hull, the tank dies."
Kian felt a rare flicker of shock. "You have men willing to take a 'One-Way Trip' for a few tons of starch?"
The rebel leaders didn't answer. They just looked at Kian with a mixture of pity and resolve. To them, Kian's question was the height of Spire-soft ignorance. In the 41st Millennium, life was the cheapest currency available. Dying for the Cause wasn't a tragedy; it was a career path.
Kian handed the remote trigger to Silas. "Left button is the safety. Press it once to prime, twice to detonate. Use it wisely."
He then tapped the sketch of the Chimera. "Listen well. The turret has the 40mm autocannon and a co-axial stubber. The hull has a heavy stubber facing forward. There are three firing ports on each side where the infantry can stick their rifles out.
"But the rear? The rear is a blind spot. There are no fixed weapons, and the armor plating is at its thinnest. If you're going to send a rider to his death, make sure he approaches from the six o'clock position while your main force draws the turret's attention."
The warlords leaned in, eyes flashing. They hadn't known about the rear blind spot. They filed the data away like hungry predators.
The meeting broke up around 15:00. The cell leaders departed to mobilize their warriors, including Arum—the man Kian had pulverized earlier.
Before he mounted his horse, Arum gave Kian a look of concentrated, silent hatred.
"Arum is a man of small mind and long memory," Silas warned Kian. "You humiliated him. He'll be looking for a chance to settle the score in the chaos tomorrow."
Kian gave a cold, shark-like grin. "I'll give him the first shot. If he misses, he's a memory. Don't let his death ruin our friendship, Silas."
By 17:00, the evacuation began. The elderly, the children, and the non-combatant women were herded out of the camp, carrying what they could, heading deeper into the "Safe Warrens" of the northern forests. If the rebels won, they'd be called back. If they lost, they were refugees forever.
By 18:00, the reinforcements arrived. Nearly a thousand armed men and over a hundred cyber-steeds flooded the camp. They brought fresh meat and vegetables, lighting massive bonfires and boiling vats of stew. The air was filled with the scent of roasted fowl and the sound of men singing battle-hymns and cursing the Governor. They acted like men who knew they were going to die at dawn and wanted to taste one last moment of life.
Kian didn't join the party. He found a high ridge overlooking the approach to the camp. He lay prone beneath a massive, gnarled tree and prepped his sniper rifle.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The thunderous reports of the long-rifle echoed through the woods. The rebels didn't flinch; Kian had warned them he was "calibrating."
Precision rifles were temperamental Machine Spirits. Having disassembled and oiled it in the Sanctum, Kian had to re-zero the optic. He set a target on a tree 300 meters out and began firing, adjusting the dials until the 9.9mm slugs hit the center of the cross with every shot.
Once he was zeroed, he didn't stop. He spent the remaining hour of twilight firing at trees at 500, 800, and 1,000 meters.
After every shot, he would scribble notes into a small leather ledger, meticulously recording the ballistics to create a firing table.
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