The quartermaster pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, rolled tobacco in it, sealed it with saliva, lit it, and took a deep drag.
"Captain, where are we headed next? Still dealing with these poor bastards?"
Ever since receiving the order, Ternisky's brow had been tightly furrowed, never once relaxing.
"Putilov Arms Factory."
"What?"
The quartermaster's eyes widened behind his glasses. "The rebels captured the arms factory?"
"Yeah."
Ternisky looked grave. Putilov Arms Factory was located in Saint Petersburg's Narva District and employed more than forty thousand workers exempt from service!
Aside from airships, it could produce everything from basic rifles and ammunition to artillery of every caliber, infantry armor, and even Land Cruisers.
The quartermaster forced a smile. "In the middle of the night, surely not all the workers got dragged into rebellion, right?"
Forty thousand service-exempt workers—all of them able-bodied adult men.
If their work had not been so exhausting and irreplaceable, why would the masters have so mercifully granted them the "special exemption from service"?
And now they had occupied the arms factory. Even if they could not operate those war machines or wear Steam Armor, every one of them could spit once and drown a cavalry regiment of barely eight hundred men.
"Probably not. But even if only a quarter of them are there, that'll be enough to make us suffer."
"What about the capital garrison? Why are they sitting around like lords with their thumbs up their asses? Isn't suppressing rebellions their job?"
Ternisky shook his head. "I don't know. The military's written orders didn't mention it, but there should be friendly forces working with us. Most of the capital garrison are a rabble, but they do have a few elite units."
In Ternisky's view, the rebels' greatest weakness was their inability to operate