Chapter 95: The Smoke-Out Protocol
Kian Voss approached the armored transport with extreme caution. He stayed low in the trenches, navigating the blind spots of the hull-mounted firing ports until he could press his ear against the cold plasteel of the Chimera's rear.
He let out a sharp, mocking shout: "Listen up in there! I've been sent by the Sector Audit Office to deliver a message! Surrender your command immediately, or face a summary termination of your biological contract!"
Kian heard a faint, frantic rustling inside the tank, followed by the distinctive clack of a safety pin being pulled. He didn't wait for the follow-up; he threw himself face-first into the mud of the trench.
BOOM.
Another fragmentation grenade rolled from a firing port and detonated. The rebel irregulars, seeing Kian poking the "beast," had already retreated to a safe distance, watching the scavenger with a mix of curiosity and dread.
Kian scrambled back up, wiping mud from his visor. "Hard-headed bastards, aren't they?"
He turned back to the hull. "Listen, you grox-leeches! We've got mountains of timber piled against your vents! One spark and this iron box becomes a slow-cooker! You have three minutes to cycle the airlocks and walk out with your hands up, or I'll have you served as a mid-day snack!"
The response was another grenade. Kian rolled away just in time.
Parson crawled through the trench to join him. "Master Voss, we tried the 'Mercy-call' while you were unconscious. They only respond with high explosives. Let's just light the fire and be done with it."
Kian frowned, looking at the tank. "If we burn it, the Lasguns melt. The Carapace armor turns to slag. I didn't spend a day in the mud just to recover scrap metal. We need them alive... or at least, we need them out of the box."
A predatory grin spread across Kian's face. "We aren't going to roast them. We're going to smoke them."
Kian issued a series of rapid commands. The rebels, who were masters of low-tech "Sump-engineering," went to work instantly.
First, Kian had fifty riflemen take positions behind the Chimera, their weapons leveled at the rear assault ramp. If anyone tried to burst out, they would be met with a wall of lead.
Then, he had the laborers gather the massive tree trunks the Chimera had crushed during its charge. They dragged the logs over, wedging them against the hull to create a crude, triangular "shack" that completely enclosed the vehicle. They used wet clay and mud to seal the gaps between the logs, creating an airtight canopy over the tank.
Finally, they gathered a mountain of damp wood, chemical-soaked rags, and scrap rubber harvested from the PDF trucks. They piled the fuel at the base of the enclosure and struck a match.
Kian watched from the trench, lighting a Lho-stick of his own. "Let's see how good those PDF air-filters are."
He knew that "Monkey-pattern" PDF vehicles rarely featured full CBRN (Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear) shielding. That kind of high-end tech was reserved for the Astra Militarum or the Inquisition. For a planetary suppression vehicle, the seals were little more than rubber gaskets and a prayer to the Machine God.
As the fire caught, a thick, greasy black smoke began to fill the wooden enclosure. With no way to vent, the carbon monoxide and toxic fumes were forced inward.
Inside the Chimera, the survivors began to cough. The sound was audible through the hull—a deep, hacking vibration.
The occupants panicked. A firing port slid open, and a Las-barrel protruded, firing blindly. The ruby beams punched through the logs, sending splinters flying, but the smoke only used the new holes to swirl deeper into the interior.
The retainers threw their remaining grenades, hoping to shatter the wooden cage. The "shack" shuddered and groaned, but every time a log was displaced, the rebels rushed forward with fresh timber and wet mud to plug the gap.
It was a grueling forty minutes of "Sump-Siege." Every time the occupants opened a port to fire, they invited more smoke into their lungs. The air inside the Chimera was becoming a lethal soup of burnt rubber and wood-ash. Their eyes were burning, their vision blurred by tears and soot.
Finally, the mechanical logic of survival overrode the pride of the Spire.
The heavy rear ramp hissed. The magnetic locks disengaged with a series of heavy clunks.
Three figures stumbled out of the smoke, gagging and clutching their throats.
The twenty rebels waiting in the trench didn't hesitate. They didn't ask for a surrender. They pulled their triggers in a single, deafening volley.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!
The first man—a Chimera crewman in a simple flight-suit—was shredded instantly. He had no armor; the autogun slugs punched through his chest and out his back, dropping him in the mud.
The other two were Winchester's elite retainers. They were wearing Grade-4 Carapace armor on their chests and heads, which deflected the initial spray of lead. But they were blinded by the smoke and paralyzed by the "legging" instinct of the rebels.
The rebels aimed low. A dozen slugs pulverized the retainers' unprotected thighs and shins. The "mini-stormtroopers" collapsed, screaming in agony as they crawled through the dirt. Before they could raise their Lasguns, the mob surged forward.
By the time Parson and Kian managed to pull the angry rebels back, the three Imperial soldiers had been beaten into a pulp of meat and broken ceramite.
Kian signaled for the fires to be extinguished. Once the air cleared, the rebels entered the "Iron Coffin" to drag out the spoils.
[LOOT ACQUIRED: THE WINCHESTER HAUL]
11x High-pattern Lasguns (Gene-locked).
11x Las-pistols.
4x PDF Sub-stubbers.
11x Suits of Reinforced Carapace Armor.
Munitions: 100x 40mm HE Shells, 1,000x 20mm Heavy Rounds.
Kian prowled through the interior of the Chimera. In the commander's seat, he found a man slumped over the controls. He was dressed in a pristine officer's tunic, his face pale and his nostrils caked with dried blood. It was Lieutenant Winchester.
He hadn't died from the smoke. The kinetic overpressure from the suicide-rider's IED had likely caused a massive internal hemorrhage. The Spire-born noble had died in the dark, clutching a silk handkerchief.
Kian looked at the corpse, then turned to a rebel holding a rusted hatchet. "Lend me that."
With three heavy, wet strikes, Kian severed Winchester's head from his shoulders. He stripped a tattered cloak from a nearby rebel corpse and wrapped the head in the fabric.
"This," Kian said, holding up the gory bundle, "is Rudolphson's promotion."
☆☆☆
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