Captain Eliss Muran whipped his head around from left to right as it was on a swivel, constantly keeping check on his surroundings. His squadron was part of the air cover for the armoured assault on Manehattan, and like the other interceptors that had been on station was engaged in an almost incomprehensible melee in the sky.
The old adage for fighter pilots was never fly straight and level for more than 30 seconds in the combat area. It originated, as best Muran could tell, from some of the ancient Terran flying machines of antiquity, somewhere in the murky and mostly forgotten past of humanity's insatiable desire to go to war with itself before the Emperor unified the species under one flag. Such machines were a lot slower, their weapons less deadly, than what was available to the Imperium and her enemies, and now the adage was more accurately reflected as Never fly straight and level for more than 5 seconds. Thirty seconds in a high-speed dogfight was an eternity, long enough for an entire life to be lived, or more accurately, to be snuffed out.
Muran jinked his craft from side to side as he pulled up into a steep climb, throttling back to tighten his loop, rolling out at the top, wings level. There was an enemy jet in his sights, but he continued to scan over both shoulders for any sign of a pursuer getting on his tail. Inattention could be just as deadly as inexperience, but Muran had not survived this long through luck.
Not entirely, at least.
Skill, determination and bravery had something to do with it, as well. Muran swung his jet starboard a few degrees, lining up with the twisting enemy fighter, trying desperately to throw the experienced ace off his tail. His efforts were in vain as Muran depressed the firing stud and trigger, and his ventral autocannon and wingtip lascannons began blazing, ripping holes in the fuselage of the craft which burst into flame and spiralled away. Muran didn't waste time trying to confirm the kill, his third of the day, by watching it go down. His attention was instantly switched to checking his six and finding a new target.
The Imperial pilots not only had to contend with the enemy, but also the storm. Whoever planned the assault must have either been unwilling to postpone the operation due to bad weather, been unaware of the storm's impending arrival, or simply decided that the benefits to the mission outweighed the risks. Stormy weather could provide excellent cover for an assault force as visibility plummeted in the sheeting rain, but it could turn dry earth to mud and parched creek beds to raging torrents within minutes. Such mobility issues would affect both sides, but the briefing for the operation had suggested that no serious enemy counterattack was expected during the approach and encirclement phase, as a large-scale push out of the city would invite an orbital strike. Rather, localised thrusts were expected after the city had been invested, to try and force a breakthrough, either to escape or to raid Imperial artillery and command positions. But the enemy, evidently capitalising on the storm under the assumption that it would eliminate, or at least severely reduce, the chance of an accurate orbital strike being brought to bear on them, had decided to take the risk.
If a thunderstorm could be disruptive to ground operations, it could be downright destructive to aircraft. Heavy rain and thick cloud cut vision to nil, hail could cause physical damage, lightning could short out vital systems. Cloudsbursts, downdraughts and tornadoes could knock an aircraft from the sky or push it into a dive towards some unforgiving, and often invisible, terrain. Any self-respecting pilot with even a single week at basic flight training camp knew the rule. You did not go into a thunderstorm.
Many of the Imperial pilots, however, would soon have little choice. The storm was continuing to advance from offshore, being blown along at a fair pace by strong high-level winds. Locked in a dogfight, to break away to escape the storm and ignore your enemy in the process would invite an easy shootdown from behind. Squadron or even flight-level communication and cooperation became all but impossible when every man and woman involved was fighting for their life and each pilot could only see the small patch of sky that happened to visible out of their canopy at any given time. Diving into such a fight in orderly formation as a squadron could soon see an individual pilot lose track of every friendly aircraft, and sometimes every enemy aircraft, too. Many was the time a pilot would swing up from some maneuver, perform a full visual sky sweep, and find him or herself seemingly alone in the sky. Even the Auspex was of little help, as most dogfights took place at a significantly short range that there was barely space on the readout to separate from one another the accumulation of red and blue sigils that signified each aircraft.
A brief glance showed Muran that his Auspex showed just such a blob of indeterminate number, some sixty or so aircraft swirling like leaves. His weather surveyor showed a similar mass of green, yellow and red, indications of the strength of precipitation within the storm front. A look out of the canopy painted an even grimmer picture. A towering thunderhead, reaching a good thirty-thousand feet or so into the sky, formed a wall of iron off to his port side. Lightning flashed ominously around it, almost like ornamental decorative lights twinkling against the darkened background of the slate-grey clouds. It represented an obstacle no pilot wanted to face directly, but it was being forced upon them as the fight drew dangerously close to it, rain from outlying bands pattering against the armoured cockpit glass of Muran's aptly-named Lightning.
A blood-red light illuminated on his instrument panel, along with an intermittent buzzing alarm. The Auspex warning receiver was alerting him that an enemy, either an aircraft or anti-air missile battery, was painting his aircraft with Auspex and attempting to achieve a target lock. He pulled into a tight bank to port, towards the storm. As well as his evasive maneuvers, he hoped that interference from the storm might throw off the targeting system. He checked over both shoulders, and spotted the bandit.
An enemy fighter, a good distance back but turning sharply to stay with him, clearly in pursuit. A sleek craft optimised for air defence, with a single tail fin and swept-back wings. Half a dozen missiles hung beneath its wings, while a trio of stubby autocannon barrels protruded from its nose. The warning received continued to stutter as the enemy fighter tried to obtain a lock.
Muran pushed his nose down, bringing the Lightning into a spiraling dive away from the stormclouds. His altimeter ticked away as he pushed for the deck before pulling out and immediately into a tight starboard turn. After a few moments of silence, the warning receiver began to blare again. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that the bandit was still on him, though Muran's continuous maneuvers were keeping him from achieving a lock. Another Lightning flashed across his vision, part of the continuing melee going on around them, but Muran could only be focused on his pursuer.
'Hammer 1, Hammer 2, you have a bandit on your tail!' Muran's wingman, Rall, informed him over the vox.
No kidding.
'Hammer 1 copies, trying to shake him,' Muran replied. 'Can you pick him off for me?'
'Negative. I've lost you...ah, standby, attempting to reacquire,' Rall called. Muran tried a quick roll and pulled the stick hard into his stomach, throwing the Lightning into another tight turn.
'Hammer 2, Hammer 2, bandit on your six!' one of the other pilots shouted over the vox.
'Hammer 2, Hammer 1. Watch yourself. I'll shake this guy,' Muran announced, allowing his wingman to focus on his own problems. The Chaos fighter was still behind him, another visual check confirmed.
Persistent bastard.
Muran tried another quick climb and a spiral, but it stuck with him, nearly obtaining a missile lock, the intermittent tone of the alarm almost becoming a solid tone. Rain lashed Muran's cockpit, but the enemy fighter just would not break off, and could not be shook. Muran spared a glance at the weather scanner. A large patch of red was showing, indicating the heaviest rainfall, closeby. The storm front loomed above him, scattered, scudding clouds whipping around his craft. It was stupid, but it might just work, and besides which he was running out of ideas and space. The vertical bulk of cloud was getting closer and closer as he twisted and turned, the enemy fighter stubbornly on his tail the whole way, not deviating, not scared off by the weather or distracted by another, easier target.
Muran spun his jet around with a quick series of tight turns, a final attempt to dislodge his pursuer. It stuck to him like glue. Muran rolled the Lightning inverted and pulled back hard on the stick, performing a quick Split-S maneuver, a half loop downward that brought him out the correct way up and facing the opposite direction, charging headlong into the oncoming storm. The enemy fighter was still with him. and the warning receiver gave a solid tone. missile lock.
Muran flicked the countermeasure switch, and a dozen blazing magnesium flares erupted from the flanks of the Lightning, clouds of chaff puffing from the ventral section and immediately scattering into insignificance, carried on the strong winds. A missile streaked in towards him, but it lost him as he burst through the cloudwall and entered a world of grey.
Confusion immediately began to reign in his suddenly small world. Rain all but obliterated his view, pounding on the canopy in great bursts as if someone were spraying it with a fire hose. Cloud-to-cloud lightning flashed all around its namesake aircraft, crackling sheets of electricity flashing brightly, illuminating the thousands of raindrops on the windshield in prismatic glory. Muran found his jet buffeted by heavy turbulence, shaking him up like a can of rotgut ale. The Auspex warning receiver light remained dark, but shortly after that, all the lights went out.
A blinding flash of lightning accompanied by an instantaneous whip-crack roar rattled Muran. The jet had been struck, a direct hit of electricity coursing over its metal skin. While the fuselage acted as a cage that redirected the current around the pilot and cockpit, keeping Muran safe from electrocution, the bolt was powerful enough to fry several electrical circuits. Like most Imperial hardware, the Lightning was built as cheaply as possible, which meant that surge protectors and circuit shielding were not installed, as the Lightning was not designed to, or expected to, fly through thunderstorms. His Auspex screen blanked out, along with the weather scanner. Rows of lights on the instrument panel went dark as the aircraft's primary electrical system took a hit.
Muran knew entering the storm was a gamble, but it had, at least, seemingly shaken off the pursuing fighter. He reached down and quickly cycled the circuit breakers, trying to reset the system, to no avail. One concession to necessity that was fitted to the Lightning, however, was a backup electrical system, and Muran was able to switch over and reboot. The lights flickered and came back on, his Auspex reinitialising. The engines had remained unaffected and continued to thrust the Lightning forward through the eye of the storm. As the electrical system came back online, a sudden downdraft shoved it down like a giant invisible hand, the altimeter ticking off the thousands of feet of lost height. Muran quickly throttled back, stabilising his descent, and pulled the nose up steadily but firmly. The Lightning steadied and began to climb, but the result was that a torrent of rain poured into the engine intakes. While all jet engines could handle some amount of precipitation, otherwise most flights would be prematurely terminated by flying through light cloud or a feeble shower, the effect of the storm was beyond its rated design limits. So much water being ingested overwhelmed the engines, stifling their air supply and cooling the combustion chambers. The port engine flickered, strained, and died, flaming out. With a grim inevitability, the starboard engine followed suit a few moments later.
Now Muran was in trouble. He was trapped inside the storm system with no engines, relying on his backup electronic system, which was at least working, providing power to illuminate a blood-red master caution light and two equally crimson engine failure lights on the instrument panel. To make things worse, hail began to pound on the wings and fuselage, cracking the canopy in several places. He had no idea how deep the storm system was, and his best bet was to turn and make for the leading edge. He eased the stricken Lightning around, wings flexing as the winds buffeted him. His compass at least showed him which way he should be heading; west, back toward the mountains, the direction the storm was heading and thus the direction of its front.
The Lightning was gliding, something which it was perfectly able to do, but it would lose height constantly until the engines could be restarted, only possible outside of the storm and its heavy precipitation. Muran could only wait. Even his vox had gone silent, the static and interference from the storm keeping him isolated from the dogfight that was, presumably, still raging beyond the cloudwall.
Lightning raged around him, several strikes contacting with his jet, but not of sufficient power to cause any further electrical disruption. After several minutes' of gliding and monitoring his altitude, Muran emerged into the light. The plains stretched away below him to the mountain range some hundred miles west. He immediately began working on the engine restart procedures. Las-fire flickered not too far ahead, as some combat was still ongoing. To his relief, the machine spirit of the Lightning was kind to him, as both engines restarted on the first attempt, evidently mollified by the Litany of Repair he had uttered during the procedure. With both engines roaring once again, Muran was back in the fight.
His Auspex showed there were still a large number of both friendly and enemy contacts. He activated targeting, and within moments had achieved a missile lock. One of the Skystrike air-to-air missiles under his port wing leaped from its rail. Several seconds later, an explosion blossomed in the sky ahead, and one enemy aircraft went down.
But his Auspex warning receiver buzzed again. A quick look around showed nothing, and Muran pulled a tight tank, but the warning buzzer continued. Something was tracking him.
'Hammer 2, this is Hammer 1, do you copy, over?' Muran called. Rall responded a moment later.
'Hammer 1, Hammer 2 copies. What's your location, over?'
'Still in the fight...approximately...' he glanced down. 'Fifteen miles west of Manehattan. Got something on my tail.'
'Hammer 1, standby...trying to locate you,' Rall replied. But it was too late to move and engage. The warning receiver gave a loud, constant drone. Muran pulled another high-G turn, pumping out flares and chaff, but although the first incoming missile was distracted and destroyed, the second found its target and detonated just behind his starboard wing. The Captain was thrown forward against the instrument panel. Warning lights illuminated all across it. Muran recovered and tried to pull up from the dive his Lightning was now in, but the controls did not respond. He tried again, and again. The ground was getting closer. The starboard engine failed out once again, adding another shrill warning tone to the blare of alarms in the cockpit.
'Hammer 1, Hammer 2, eject, eject, eject!' Rall's voice cut clear through the static. 'Do you copy? Eject! You're on fire!'
A quick glance back confirmed his wingman's words. The starboard wing was ablaze, its fuel tank ruptured. The Lightning was leaving a trail of fire across the sky, and Muran knew it was time to leave. He reached down between his legs and his hands grasped a black-and-yellow checked handle. He gave it a firm upward tug, and the ejection sequence was initiated. Rocket motors beneath the pilot's seat fired, propelling it upward. At the exact same moment, an electrical impulse was sent through the canopy, the glass- actually acrylic plastic- of which was laced with detonator cord. The small explosions shattered the canopy milliseconds before the seat was propelled from its mountings by the rockets, hurling Muran free of his crippled jet.
The g-forces were intense, but certainly preferable to a fiery death if he had ridden the stricken Lightning for much longer. He found himself splashed by rain and buffeted by wind. His parachute opened, leaving him suspended and slowly floating down to earth, giving him a perfect view of his fighter as it went down, down, down, getting close to the ground before the fire reached either the unspent missiles or the main fuel tank, and the Lightning disappeared in a flaming cloud, ripped apart and scattering fragments across the terrain.
Muran's seat released, dropping away, leaving him hanging from the parachute, falling to the ground. He had been saved from certain death, but a quick glance downward told him that he was soon to be in trouble again.
Below, hundreds of armoured vehicles could be seen, scattered across the plains, engaged in a titanic duel of steel and flesh, and Muran was falling right into the middle of it.
Captain Mayner, despite his many years of service, had never encountered a hostile Baneblade. They were rare enough in Imperial service, and having fought alongside one or two, he knew the power they exerted. He also knew it needed to die immediately.
'Load armour piercing! Gunner! Super heavy, twelve o'clock!' he shouted.
'Up!' replied Janssen.
'Identified!' called Cheyne.
'FIre!' Mayner roared.
The armour-piercing, high-powered Vanquisher shell left the barrel and flung itself across the plains. It smashed into the frontal armour of the Baneblade, enough to destroy any other enemy tank, enough to penetrate any defence.
And it did absolutely nothing.
The shell bounced off of the immensely thick frontal armour of the Banelade, barely even chipping the paint, which was the dark-red shade of drying blood. Other tanks had spotted the behemoth too, and over the next few seconds another dozen shells clanged into it from various angles, none of them penetrating. Its objective was clear; to push through the Imperial 'anvil' and force a break in the line through which the Chaos armour could pour and conduct a reverse envelopment of the 2nd Armoured, or worse, press on toward the 9th Mechanised. While the Chimeras and their bipedal Sentinel escorts were not defenceless, they could not hope to stand against enemy tanks in any significant number on such open terrain, even if their infantry charges dismounted and added the firepower of their missiles launchers and lascannons to the fight. The Baneblade was ideal for such tasks, either functioning as a bastion around which a position could be formed in the defence, or as a battering ram in the offence, a sluggish but formidably armed and almost invincible wall of iron.
Its numerous guns were blazing, main battle cannon roaring with a tremendous thunder and ripping the turret from an Imperial tank. Two lascannons cut searing tracks through the falling rain, flashing water to steam as they passed. The heavy Demolisher siege cannon in the hull lobbed a massive shell that practically annihilated a Leman Russ, leaving what remained of its twisted hull slowly trundling down the gentle slope of the ridgeline. Numerous heavy bolters rattled away, incapable of doing major damage to a Leman Russ but able to damage or destroy external sensors, knock out unprotected secondary weapons and even, with a lucky shot or an excellent gunner, striking a vision slit dead-on and causing injury or death to the crewman peering out of it. The Baneblade was also heavily supported by enemy tanks, some Leman Russ but mostly low-slung, sleek types, some regional design or perhaps something cooked up by the forces of Chaos themselves.
The danger was clear, and it had to be snuffed out. Mayner spoke into the vox.
'Cobalt Alpha One-One actual to all Alpha vehicles. Target is super-heavy tank, twelve o'clock. Focus all fire, no need to acknowledge. Engage at will.'
His company responded immediately, with a torrent of fire, shells slamming into the heavy armour of the Baneblade, laser and plasma leaving steaming holes in its surface but doing only superficial damage. A platoon of Imperial tanks from another company had raced ahead and were now deep among the enemy, causing havoc. The Baneblade turned its turrets upon them, and within a few moments had rendered them all into nothing more than scrap metal. A few survivors climbed free of the burning wrecks and were mercilessly gunned down by the mass of heavy bolters carried by the super-heavy.
'Driver, sponsons! Super-heavy, twelve o'clock, fire as she bears!' Mayner ordered. The plasma cannons and the lascannon had limited traverse and could only fire when the target came into their sights. As the tank rolled and pitched over the small hillocks and draws in the ground, they each fired in turn. Farber's plasma cannon in the starboard sponson found its target, and one of the Baneblade's heavy bolter turrets took a hit, knocking out one of the two guns mounted upon it, the barrel partially melted. All that seemed to do was to piss the Baneblade off.
The Demolisher cannon belched out another blast of smoke as a hefty shell roared through the air, detonating in a huge fountain of earth beside a Leman Russ. The tank was not hit, but instead it rode the rising column of dirt, tipping it over with a thump, its port sponson digging into the ground. A pair of lascannon shots to the exposed belly quickly set the tank ablaze. Nobody crawled free. The Baneblade's main cannon, meanwhile, began to rotate towards Big Beautiful Doll.
'He's tracking us!' Cheyne warned, eyes glued to her rangefinder. Mayner rapidly concurred. A direct hit from the main gun would likely be the end of them- it was all but certain that it would penetrate their armour.
'Driver!' Mayner called. 'Full speed!'
'Full speed!' Barnes replied, kicking up the gears as the tank's turbine engine whined. Mayner took a quick look through his thermoscope to confirm the Baneblade was still tracking them. It was.
Mayner reached up to a switch on the side of the turret, flicking it. Outside, two triple-tube smoke launchers fired off a quick salvo of canisters, bursting a short distance from the tank and shrouding it in thick white clouds. Not only did the smoke obscure visual targeting, it was laced with particulates that blocked infra-red, meaning thermal targeting systems would be of no use. The same was true in reverse, as Mayner's thermoscope would be rendered ineffective while they were inside the cloud.
'Driver, hard turn left...halt halt halt!' Mayner ordered swiftly. The tank swung around and then slowed sharply, stopping inside the cloud but not where it would have been if it had continued forwards.
A heavy shell whistled past them, cutting a swirling trail in the smoke, the Baneblade having missed its target. Mayner congratulated himself momentarily on the successful ruse, but no time could be wasted.
'Driver, reverse, reverse, reverse,' he ordered. 'Full speed. Gunner, driver, sponsons, standby to fire as you see the target.' A quick string of affirmative responses came from his crew as the tank's treads began to spin in reverse, moving them back out of the cloud and now perpendicular to the, hopefully, still advancing Baneblade. Moving forward would invite a second shot from its main cannon, assuming its gunner was paying attention, but by backing up Mayner hoped he could get an angle on the target from behind the smoke cloud as it continued its progress.
The tank rumbled back, chewing up the ground under its tracks, opening up a wider space between it and the smoke cloud. Sure enough, the Baneblade was continuing on, forward, not deviating. Welks in the port sponson got a glimpse first, and quickly locked on.
'Target sighted, firing!' he reported. Big Beautiful Doll was now abeam the heavier tank and able to fire right into its less well-protected side armour. The plasma bolt blazed through the rain and struck its target. A second later, both Cheyne and Barnes got a sighting and were able to add their firepower, followed by Farber in the starboard sponson. Laser, plasma and ballistic weaponry alike raked the flank of the Baneblade, but if anything penetrated, there was no evidence of it. The main gun, which had been pointing at their previous location, now swung to meet them at their new position.
'Driver, forward, forward, forward, full speed!' Mayner shouted. The tank juddered to a halt and resumed forward motion as fast as Barnes could make her, pushing hard for the cover of the thinning smoke cloud once more. They just about reached it, and the Baneblade's gunner did not fire, not wanting to waste a second round on an unsure target. Trying to go toe-to-toe in a dance of death with a super-heavy tank was all well and good, but it meant that the crew's attention was turned away from the rest of the battlefield.
The turret rang like a bell as something struck it hard from the right. Mayner grimaced, ducking down a bit as fragments of spalling internal armour whipped around the crew compartment, enough to cause some minor cuts but no serious wounds. Someone else had a bead on them. The Baneblade would have to wait.
'Driver, right turn. Gunner, traverse right!' Mayner ordered. The tank slewed round, as did the turret. Until it swung round far enough, Mayner could not see what was firing at them. He peered through his scope in anticipation. A silhouette, glowing white in the thermal vision, but it was one of half a dozen atop a low ridge. Which one was firing at them?
Three muzzle flashes, from three different tanks, and another clang, this time on the frontal armour. There was no time to work out which tank was after them. Another shot could be fatal. The only option was to deal with all of them at once.
'Targets on ridge ahead, from the left,' Mayner shouted. 'Gunner, third tank, driver, fourth tank, sponsons, sixth tank. Fire at will!' His rapid commands laid out the parameters- their targets were on the ridge, and each crew member was to target the tank assigned, in order of their positioning from left to right. The main gun roared, the lascannon flashed, and the plasma cannons cracked, and within seconds, three enemy tanks were burning wrecks. Mayner issued further commands, and the crew engaged the other three tanks and destroyed them as well.
During their diversion, the rest of the company had been focusing on the Baneblade, and reports were flying over the vox. The company had taken losses- heavy losses, in fact, being down to less than half strength- but they had managed to knock out one of the lascannon turrets and another heavy bolter on the behemoth, which was still reported to be advancing steadily, a phalanx of armour supporting its push and attempting to drive a wedge through the Imperial force. Mayner ordered the tank swung back around. Now they would be behind the Baneblade, and the rear of any tank was where it had its weakest armour.
Shots continued to criss-cross the battlefield, which was now littered with burning wrecks from both sides. The Chaos ground-attack aircraft had their pick of targets, swooping in low to drop bombs and strafe with lascannon, all but unmolested due to the dogfight still raging above drawing off the Imperial fighters. But, finally, support was arriving, the reserve Lightnings reaching the battlefield. Under orders from command, they ignored their fellows engaged in combat and fell upon the enemy attack jets unmercifully. The slower, less maneuverable craft were as east a target to the interceptors as the unaware tanks below had been to them. It took less than two minutes for every one of the ground-attack craft to be shot down, clearing the skies over the assault force. The Lightning powered into the sky to help the others still fighting above.
Back on the ground, the Baneblade, as powerful as it was, was still just one vehicle. It found itself under fire from at least fifty Imperial tanks, and while very few of their shots did any major damage, its combat efficiency was being gradually degraded as secondary weapons were knocked out, sensors and scopes ripped away, and track links bent and damaged. It took a fearsome toll in return, a dozen Leman Russ tanks falling before its guns. Big Beautiful Doll pulled round behind the enemy echelon, trusting in the Imperial flanking forces to keep her six clear.
'All positions! Target super-heavy, twelve o'clock, range nine hundred,' Mayner called out. The rear engine deck of the Baneblade glowed like the sun in his scope. That would be the target. Another tank of his company was alongside them, the rest scattered by the enemy push or dead by their hand. The main guns of both tanks came about, along with two lascannons, two plasma cannons, and two heavy bolters.
'Fire!' Mayner roared.
Eight barrels of hell were unleashed, pounding the thinner rear armour of the Baneblade. The heavy Vanquisher round was able to punch through. A second shell in the same spot was quickly laid on by Cheyne, shattering pistons, cracking casings, severing oil lines and igniting their contents. A flash-fire erupted inside, quickly snuffed out by compartmental sprinklers, but the cannon had done its work, and the Baneblade's engine plant shut down, immobilising the beast.
Wounded, but far from dead, the Baneblade cracked the turret of another Leman Russ open with a lascannon shot, while the main turret began to rotate to engage those that had dared attack it from behind. The Demolisher cannon in the hull fired, ripping the front end of another tank away. It would not die easily.
Shells smashed into it from a dozen directions. Precise lascannon shots took out the final heavy bolter turret. Several of its supporting tanks were destroyed, though three continued to fight alongside it, killing two Imperial tanks before succumbing to what little fire was not aimed at the Baneblade itself. Outnumbered, surrounded, and finally overpowered, the Baneblade would not give up, loudspeakers broadcasting foul Chaos propaganda as its remaining guns blazed. Big Beautiful Doll closed right in and pumped three more shells into the rear armour, all but expending their ammunition supply, but at point blank range they smashed right into the interior of the tank. The lascannon and plasma cannons poured fire into the opening created by the main gun, burning through bulkheads and shattering interior frames. One shot, from whatever source, from the rear, the sides, or the front, managed to punch through and detonate in the Bandeblade's main magazine.
Mayner grunted in pain and snatched himself away from the thermoscope as the whole screen flashed impossibly bright. Immediately the tank shook, and debris began to slam into the hull, shrapnel raining down on the turret. Blinking repeatedly to recover from the crazed patterns and colours affecting his vision, Mayner risked a peek through the scope again.
A cataclysmic explosion had torn the Baneblade apart from within, shattering its hardy structure and leaving little more than a flaming patch of metal. A crater a good twenty feet deep had been gouged in the earth beneath. Hundreds of tons of metal and ceramite had rained down across the battlefield, the detruction wrought on such a mighty machine a clear indication of the power it could unleash if its unspent ammunition had been fired at the Imperial force.
But it was dead. The Baneblade was gone, the most immediate threat to the Imperial line. The crew of Big Beautiful Doll could breathe a sigh of relief.
Except they couldn't, because the enemy was not defeated merely because of the loss of its key asset, and before the tank could turn to continue the fight, something struck it a hammer-blow from behind.