An hour later, the gates of the base slowly opened.
Fifty modified transport trucks roared as they drove out.
The chassis were reinforced with additional steel plating, and the roofs were mounted with anti-aircraft machine guns or rocket launchers. Sprayed on the side of every vehicle was the emblem of Crimson Dawn: a crimson sun rising from a dark horizon.
Tax Bro sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck, looking at the spacious cabin and the fully kitted-out gear. He couldn't help but sigh in the [Regional Channel]:
"This is life! The trucks finally aren't crammed! and our gear is stacked! I'm augmented to Type-III 100%. I could punch a mutant to death with one hit right now!"
[Have You Been Loyal Today?] replied: "Tax Bro, didn't you say last time that you could punch a Leman Russ tank into scrap with one hit?"
[Tax Bro]: "What the hell, bro?! That was a rhetorical exaggeration! Do you understand rhetoric?!"
[Did White Scars Speed Today?]: "Speaking of which, with this loadout... we'd be considered elite militia even in the Warhammer world, right?"
[God-Tier Mechanic]: "A standard PDF infantry squad is equipped with ten lasguns and one heavy stubber. Our one thousand men are equipped with nine hundred and seventy lasguns, fifty-two heavy stubbers, eighty rocket launchers, plus three rocket artillery trucks and two mortar trucks."
[God-Tier Mechanic]: "Our firepower density is more than three times that of the PDF."
[Execute War Criminal Weasels]: "But how does it compare to the regular armies of the four major factions?"
The channel went silent for a few seconds.
[God-Tier Mechanic]: "According to the intel Deep sent back, the standard configuration for the local guard forces of the four factions is: five to ten tanks, ten to twenty Sentinel mechs, and a number of heavy artillery pieces per ten thousand men."
[God-Tier Mechanic]: "In a head-on pitched battle, we'd be crushed."
[Tax Bro]: "Which is exactly why we need to lay low and develop! Just wait until I get my hands on a suit of Power Armor, then we'll see who crushes who!"
–
At the same time, fifty kilometers north of Aru City, in the Joint Command Encampment of the Four Factions.
This temporarily constructed command center covered over five square kilometers. The perimeter had three layers of walls, mounted with automated turrets and lascannon turrets.
Inside, hundreds of massive tents were divided into functional zones: command, logistics, medical, equipment maintenance...
At this moment, the atmosphere inside the largest tent in the command center was incredibly heavy.
Planetary Governor Harrington sat at the head of the table.
The slightly chubby middle-aged man wore the standard uniform of an Imperial bureaucrat: deep blue robes trimmed with gold, and a double-headed eagle pin symbolizing his gubernatorial authority pinned to his chest.
He looked like a pampered noble, but a shrewd light flickered in his small eyes.
To remain the Governor of a planet where his power had been entirely usurped by four major factions—and to do so for thirty years—Harrington was absolutely no fool.
"Four hundred thousand PDF." Harrington picked up the crystal glass on the table, took a sip of Agri-World wine, and spoke unhurriedly: "The PDF local forces that you gentlemen requested, I have deployed them all. In fact... I gave you fifty thousand more."
He set the glass down, his gaze sweeping over the representatives of the four major factions seated below him:
Busir Hysman, Kans Atens, Riley Conmo, Scoria Kane.
"However."
Harrington's tone suddenly turned freezing cold:
"I want to see with my own eyes exactly how you intend to annihilate the heresy. If your operational plans prove ineffective, if pouring these four hundred and fifty thousand PDF troops in doesn't even make a splash..."
He paused, enunciating every word:
"I will immediately report to the Imperial Navy Fleet, the Sector Governor's Palace, and the Departmento Munitorum. When that happens, the so-called 'four major factions' of Aurelian IV—aside from the Mechanicus, who might be exempt due to the Treaty of Olympus—the rest of you..."
Harrington sneered:
"I'm afraid there will be a change of management."
The tent fell dead silent.
Beneath his robes, Busir's hands clenched into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms.
The servo-motors in Kans' Power Armor emitted a faint hum.
Riley's veil fluttered slowly.
Only Scoria's mechanical voice remained completely steady:
"Governor Harrington. The data indicates that the success rate of this operational plan is above sixty-eight percent."
"Oh? Sixty-eight percent?" Harrington raised an eyebrow. "And what about the remaining thirty-two percent? Is that failure? Or... total annihilation?"
He stood up and walked over to the holographic sand table in the center of the tent.
On the sand table, the terrain of the industrial zone was clearly visible: collapsed manufactorums, twisted piping, bottomless mining pits... and the purple corruption zone that was continuously expanding outward.
"I've studied the battle reports."
Harrington pointed at the sand table:
"Over the past twenty-eight days, you have lost over a hundred and fifty thousand men, hundreds of tanks, and hundreds of mechs in the industrial zone, and the results? You killed a few thousand lesser daemons, and haven't even scratched the skin of the two daemon lords."
He turned around, staring at the four representatives:
"Tell me, why would you win this time?"
Busir took a deep breath and stood up.
"Lord Governor, previously, we underestimated the strength of the Warp heresy but this time is different."
He walked to the other side of the sand table.
"First, we have mobilized all our reinforcements. Our total troop strength has reached three hundred thousand, and our equipment level is three times what it was before.
Second, although the four hundred and fifty thousand PDF troops are poorly equipped, they can handle the frontal containment operations.
Third, we have formulated an entirely new tactic."
Busir swiped his hand across the sand table:
"Artillery bombardment, followed by a direct strike at their heart. We have used psychic methods to lock onto the approximate locations of the two daemon lords. They usually appear in the ruins of Sector Seven, in the center of the industrial zone. That is where the Chaos corruption is most severe. The operational plan is: use the PDF to launch feints from four directions to draw away the main daemonic forces. Simultaneously, our Knight Mech armored forces and elite troops will advance secretly through the underground tunnels and strike directly into the industrial zone. As long as we can eliminate the source of the heresy—that blue bird-head and red hound-head daemon—within two hours, the entire daemon army will lose its command structure. Then, we will launch a general offensive from the perimeter and wipe them all out in one fell swoop."
Harrington listened, remaining silent for a few seconds.
Then he smiled:
"Sounds good, but I will say it again: I only look at results."
He walked back to his seat and sat down again.
"Go. Execute your plan. If you succeed, I will petition for your merits in my report to Terra. If you fail..."
Harrington's smile turned icy cold:
"The Adeptus Arbites will come to judge your crimes. I won't be able to run, and neither will any of you."
With that, he waved his hand, signaling the end of the meeting.
The four representatives walked out of the tent with dark expressions.
Outside the tent, Kans was the first to speak:
"He's threatening us."
"It's a reminder." Busir corrected him. "A reminder that if we lose, everyone dies."
Scoria added, "Even if we successfully assassinate the two Warp entities, the projected survival rate of the PDF forces tying down the frontline is less than twenty percent. Out of four hundred and fifty thousand men, probably less than ninety thousand will survive."
"So what?" Busir said coldly. "PDF lives are cheap. You can grab a handful anywhere. Trading them for our wealth and future is worth it."
He looked toward the industrial zone:
"Pass down the orders. Proceed according to plan. Tomorrow at dawn, the general offensive begins."