Now the surviving officers of the blockade knew their situation. The Herald of Night had not come to reinforce them. Instead, their role was to support its mission.
If any still lived at the end of this day, they would receive the gratitude of the Imperium for their service.
The view in the oculus shifted, reflecting the changes to the Herald of Night’s course. The orb of the attack moon moved to the centre. It was partially obscured by the explosions of ships and the pinprick flashes of guns. Its maw snarled, hate made of stone and iron. The base grew larger.
‘How close…’ Aelia began.
‘As close as we are able,’ Adnachiel said. He shifted his stance in the pulpit, bracing for the inevitable lash of the gravity weapon, balancing risks, riding the lethal edge of the wager. If the Herald of Night took the full force of what the orks were capable of, the mission would end before it had begun. But he had to get the Deathwatch into proximity with the target.
‘Get us in a direct line with the jaws,’ Adnachiel said. If the gravity weapon fired, the orks would destroy all the ships they were launching. He did not think they would use it unless desperate. The war was still running their way. The blockade was coming apart like the rotten wall it was.
More and more interceptors closed in. The Herald’s batteries could not take them all down — they were fast. Their construction seemed crude, brutal shapes hurtling through the void, and they were not agile, but they absorbed more damage than Imperial ships of comparable size. They came at the strike cruiser with the murderous intent of guided meteors.
The Herald had left the false calm of the gap for the heart of the storm. Vast engines of destruction warred with machines of shrieking speed. Death lashed out over distances of tens of thousands of kilometres. The strike cruiser became the centre of gravity of the conflict. Ork and Imperial ships converged in response to its movements, and leviathans and lightning found a single focus. The space of the battle constricted.
Beam weapons and torpedoes slammed into the Herald. Crippled ork fighters hurled themselves against its shields as they died. In the oculus, the void became a strobing storm of explosions and energy discharges. The void shields rippled and flashed, red and searing violet.
The attack moon was huge. Its circumference surpassed the edges of the oculus.
‘Lord Commander Koorland,’ Adnachiel voxed. ‘Are you ready to launch?’
‘We are.’
‘Opening bay doors.’
Adnachiel stared straight ahead, at the void and the gaping rage of the target. In the corner of his eye, he saw the multiplying red of damage icons. He ignored them. He felt each shake and tremor of the ship as a personal blow. He stood fast, willing his ship forward. He knew its injuries. Let it know his determination.
The jaws were opening again. The interior of the ork moon filled the centre of the oculus. Adnachiel glared at the hunger of fire and darkness.
‘Launch!’ he shouted. ‘Launch!’
One more klaxon added its voice to the cacophony of warnings on the bridge. It was the only sign of the departure of the Thunderhawks until Koorland spoke again.
‘You have taken us to the threshold, brother,’ he said. ‘Now we have crossed it.’
‘Strike hard.’
‘The orks will feel our blow even on Ullanor.’
‘Bow up!’ Adnachiel roared. ‘Take us over the pole.’ He would make the orks pursue the prize of the Herald of Night. He would be their target. He would draw their eyes away from the insignificant ships flying into the moon.
Strike hard, he thought again. Strike hard.
Four
The three Thunderhawks flew into the maw. They came in low, beneath the flights of the ork fighters, and close to the port side of the jaws. They entered the throat of the monster, a colossal shaft reaching straight down to the centre of the moon. Energy flashed outside the viewing blocks as they crossed the threshold.
Inside the Reclaimed Honour, the Ultramarine Simmias said, ‘Some form of containment field. They’re maintaining their atmosphere.’
‘You’re impressed,’ said Koorland.
‘I am respectful of an opponent’s capabilities,’ the Techmarine said. ‘Doing less would lead to faulty theoreticals and disastrous practicals in battle.’
‘And what do you deduce that we don’t already know?’ Hakon Icegrip asked. The Space Wolf had not donned his helmet yet, and the low snarl of his breathing was audible in the hold. He was taut with impatience.
‘I deduce that all aspects of this base are receiving large amounts of power,’ Simmias said, unmoved by the challenge in Icegrip’s question. ‘Theoretical — much of the damage we inflicted before has been repaired, at least in terms of tactical effects. That is a lot of energy to devote to the preservation of atmosphere in a launch shaft.’
The Honour shook. Proximity warnings sounded. Koorland looked through the viewing block. The Thunderhawk was flying so close to the inner wall that it had clipped protruding scaffolding. The walls were crude, uneven, and they whipped by at such speed there could be no evading minor obstacles. The three gunships were travelling through thickets of ragged ends of iron and rock. They were not taking fire yet. Koorland dared to hope they had entered undetected.
‘What do you think, Simmias?’ the Blood Angel Vepar asked, pointing to the teleport homer on the Techmarine’s back. ‘Will it work?’
‘I can’t say. Too much of this technology is unfamiliar.’
He sounded suspicious. Koorland couldn’t blame him. The Imperial device had been modified so heavily it was barely recognisable. It was less bulky than the standard model, but had sprouted a tangle of cables and brass spheres.
‘The device is xenos-tainted,’ said Hanniel.
Koorland turned to the Dark Angels Librarian. ‘Of course it is. And we will use its taint to purge the larger one.’
‘While teleporting ourselves back to the Herald?’ said Icegrip. ‘There isn’t even a platform.’
‘Once powered, the machine will respond to the signal from the ship’s teleportation pad,’ Simmias said. ‘It is the Herald’s device that will call us back, while the ones we place on the moon will send it away. Theoretically.’
‘Theoretically,’ Vepar repeated.
Koorland glanced at Haas. She had said nothing since the launch from the Herald of Night. She stared out the viewing block, her face grim with pain and stony determination as she returned to her prison. As he watched, he saw her jerk, as if in bleak recognition. He didn’t think it could be. She had never seen the launch shaft.
Even so, at the same moment, the pilot Nithael voxed, ‘Approaching primary target.’
‘How close can you get us?’ Koorland asked.
‘I see a major avenue. It looks clear.’
‘Take it.’
The Reclaimed Honour slowed. The wall became less of a blur. Its details became clear as the gunship turned into a passageway wide enough for a battalion of tanks. The edges of the opening were broken, as if the tunnel had been cut here by violent action. The kill-team shed grav-harnesses and stood. The Thunderhawk came to a rapid halt, landing with a blast of exhaust nozzles. The forward ramp dropped, and the first of the Deathwatch squads stormed down onto the tunnel floor. Koorland led his squad and Haas off while the gunship lifted off again.
‘Good hunting,’ said Nithael. ‘I will await your return.’
‘Fly well, brother,’ Koorland told him. He watched the Honour turn back towards the shaft. There was a glow coming from it, dark and red illumination from the engines of the passing interceptors still heading out to fight the blockade. The other two Thunderhawks should be finding their landing targets very soon. The Reclaimed Honour’s departure was a good omen. Perhaps all three would exit the moon and return to the Herald of Night.