Space orbit, flagship of the Allied fleet.
Earl Octavius stood with his back to the control panel in front of the observation porthole on the bridge.
The gray planet beneath our feet was shrouded in a dark yellow cloud of industrial exhaust fumes, and the spire of the Hive City pierced through the clouds like a tombstone erected on a stone coffin.
He held a cup of Reca coffee in his hand, looking as relaxed as if he were reviewing land accounts in the study of his own estate.
Ever since the Anvil was nailed to low orbit, the governor, who came from the Lower Hive, has been completely quiet.
There was no breakout attempt, no large-scale air raid; only a few scattered light aircraft attempted to sneak across, but they were all torn to shreds by anti-aircraft fire.
Siege warfare is an ancient art, Octavius was well-versed in it; there was no need for a direct assault, only waiting.
" Earl Excellency, the Astropathic Communication has confirmed that the Iron Warriors 51st Expeditionary Fleet is about to arrive and will rendezvous with the Allied Fleet." The voice of the tactical communications officer came from the console.
Earl Octavius took a sip of coffee, without even lifting his eyelids. "Reply to them: We await the arrival of the Emperor Angel."
The Iron Warriors are the offspring of Perturabo and are renowned among the Emperor's many legions for their ability to conquer cities and fortresses.
But this is a private feud between the Rogue Trader and the Planetary Governor, and the Iron Warriors has no interest in such trivial matters.
6
"They're probably just here to receive supplies; don't worry about them too much."
Report on the effects of the blockade.
"Yes, sir, the consumption is still within the preset calculation range."
Octavius nodded slightly.
The Anvil remained below the planetary horizon of the Alpha Hive City, using the planet's curvature as a natural cover. The direct-fire trajectory of the Hive City's main guns was completely blocked by the planet's body, making it impossible for them to lock onto the target.
Those Planetary Defense Cannon that attempted to be launched via indirect ballistic trajectory were rendered useless by full-band electromagnetic interference signals, leaving them to rely solely on luck.
Even if it occasionally hits, the Void Shield prevents it from causing any damage.
The cost is that maintaining this precise trajectory requires the engine to run continuously, and the reactor fuel is being consumed at a visible rate.
This is not a war of annihilation, but a war of attrition.
Earl Octavius was betting that Fu Haoran's supplies wouldn't last until his fuel ran out.
How much longer can we hold on?
"At the current rate of consumption, the lockdown can still be maintained for a considerable period."
"Enough." Earl Octavius set down his teacup. "If the Rogue Trader Reck's intelligence is accurate, the Hive City's food reserves won't last more than five months."
"Moreover, with the reinforcements just brought by the transport ship, we now have 1,260 Thunderbolt Heavy Fighter."
"With so many fighter jets supporting them, that governor of Lower Hive will either starve to death in the Hive City or rush out to his death. There is no third possibility."
Octavius brought up the tactics simulation interface and looked at the win rate.
Data doesn't lie.
It's a miracle that the governor who climbed up from the Lower Hive has been able to hold out for so long under the siege of the Allied forces.
But miracles don't happen twice.
"Maintain suppression." He gave the final order over the communication channel, leaned back in his command chair, and picked up his cup again.
Hive City Lower Hive, chapels.
Hundreds of thousands of believers knelt silently before the enormous Four-Armed Emperor.
Rusty iron chains hung from the dome, with hundreds of iron cages attached to them, containing Allied prisoners of war.
They hadn't eaten or drunk anything for three days; their lips were cracked, their eyes were sunken, and they looked like a herd of livestock waiting to be slaughtered.
The high priestess stood on the high platform, her three arms outstretched, the tentacles on her back swaying slowly in the dim light, casting a distorted halo around her bald head.
"Children! Look up!"
The priestess pointed three hands at the dome simultaneously, the sharp claws at her fingertips gleaming with an eerie green light under the lamplight.
"See that iron coffin overhead? It's hovering above us!"
"It bombarded our homes with artillery fire and crushed our flesh with its iron hooves! It thought that by trapping us under this dark and hopeless Hive City, we would submit like ants!"
A deafening roar erupted from the audience.
"But they were wrong!" The priestess's voice rose to an almost piercing pitch.
"We are the chosen people of the Great Sovereign! The blood of the Great Devourer flows in our veins!"
"Death is never the end, but the glory of breaking free from this wretched body and returning to the sea of genes!"
She pointed sharply to the area below the icon, where rows of Boarding Torpedo.
"Do you see those holy coffins? The Intercessor has already issued a divine decree! The holy war is at dawn!"
"We will burrow into these holy coffins and pierce their iron shells like swords! We will tear through their armor with our claws and bite their throats with our teeth!"
In the front row, closest to the icon, stood a young member of the team who had jumped over the wall.
His name is Zeke, and as a fourth-generation mixed-race individual, he has shown obvious signs of atavism.
That's why he became a member of the Kamikaze suicide squad in the Holy War.
The Intercessor said that only a warrior as close to a pureblood as him is the key to determining victory or defeat in this battle.
Of course, this was destined to be a one-way trip.
But Zeke didn't care, because the Intercessor had said that death was just another beginning.
To get used to the environment inside Boarding Torpedo, Zeke visited his own vehicle.
The torpedo's inner wall was so narrow that he could only sit with his legs curled up.
The high priest's voice continued, like a fire spreading from her feet, burning from the front row to the back, from the foot of the icon to every beating heart.
"When our flesh and blood are scattered among the stars, our genes will be reborn in the bodies of our descendants! On the day the Great Ruler descends, we will open our eyes again and, together with Him, rule the entire galaxy!"
"Children, tell me! Are you ready?"
Zeke raised the Lasgun above his head and roared along with millions of believers in a thunderous roar.
His voice was drowned out by the enormous roar, but he didn't care.
He knew his voice had merged into the soundscape, just as his mother's genes had merged into his flesh and blood.
Hive City on Upper Hive, hangars.
In stark contrast to the fervor of the lower chapel, this place was eerily quiet.
Three hundred F-22 " Thunderhawk " variant fighter jets were lined up neatly on the runway.
The matte gray stealth coating hadn't fully dried yet, and the originally smooth aerodynamic lines were completely ruined by the dense missile pylons.
The Mechanical Arm was still performing final mounting checks; the hissing of the hydraulic arms and the clicking of the metal latches mingled together, echoing repeatedly in the empty hangar.
In a corner of the hangar, an old Lightning Fighter sat there all alone.
Its fuselage was riddled with bullet holes and patches, the engine cowling had three cracks that had been re-stitched with rivets, and the instrument panel was covered with twelve faded photos of its comrades.
The leftmost photo was taken forty years ago. The person in the photo is wearing the same flight suit as Kyle and is smiling, revealing teeth stained yellow by cheap tobacco.
Gear Kid stood beside the wing, his mechanical prosthetic hand clutching a parts Manifest, his red mechanical eye repeatedly scanning the data.
The fuselage frame was corroded by more than 30%, and the engine power was only 70%, not even reaching half the cruising speed of the Thunderhawk fighter. He remained silent for a long time before speaking, " Kyle, I'll say it one last time, this old Lightning Fighter is beyond repair. If you fly it up there, you're just throwing your life away."
Old Kyle was wiping the bullet holes on the machine with a rag.
He remembered the origin of every bullet mark: the one on the right wing root was left from the civil war in the Hive City thirty-seven years ago. A rebel Lightning Fighter had its sights locked on his six o'clock position, and an armor-piercing bullet grazed the wing root, almost breaking the aileron linkage.
The line on the left side of the fuselage is from thirty-one years ago, when he covered the retreat of a rookie squadron. They were surrounded by three enemy planes, but he managed to use the old Lightning Fighter's low-speed maneuverability to circle around the steel jungle of the Hive City for two thousand minutes until reinforcements arrived.
He chuckled, folded the rag, put it in his pocket, and pointed to the twelve photos on the dashboard. "Look, these old buddies are all here waiting for me. Back in the days of the civil war in the Hive City, it was this old fellow who led me through the rebel encirclement."
"I'm too old, too old to use brain-computer interfaces to learn new things."
"Besides, an old guy like me isn't used to flying new fighter jets."
"Besides, all my students have gone to the battlefield. How could I, as their teacher, hide behind them?"
"But----"
"No buts." Old Kyle interrupted his old friend, patting the faded squadron insignia on the fuselage.
"I'm already sixty-two. Even if I don't go to the battlefield, I won't be able to fly for many more years."
"Better to sleep in the vast sky than to die in bed." Kyle smiled, his eyes suddenly softening. "The new era belongs to the young. This old fogey will dance one last dance and pave the way for them."
Gear Kid stood still, his red mechanical eye fixed on old Kyle for a long time.
He then put the parts Manifest into the storage compartment inside his arm armor, pulled an engine fuel injector from his waist, and said, "This is the last one. Once it's used up, that's it. Besides, your vehicle can't withstand any more wear and tear."
Old Kyle took the oilcloth bag, weighed it in his hand, and looked up at Gear Kid's face, which was mostly hidden by his mechanical prosthetic arm. "Thanks, old buddy."
Gear Kid did not answer.
He turned around, took a few steps toward the hangar exit, and then stopped.
He didn't turn around; the voice from the mechanical speaker was half a octave lower than usual. "May Omnissiah bless you, old Kyle, though He may not recognize your old face."
Old Kyle stood under the wing, watching Gear Kid's figure disappear into the shadows of the hangar, then looked down at the spray nozzle in his hand, and then at the twelve faded photographs on the instrument panel.
He opened the canopy, placed the injector on the co-pilot's seat, and then ran his hand over the bullet holes in the fuselage, as if greeting each of his old comrades who were still in the photos.
On the other side of the hangar, a group of young pilots were gathered around their respective fighter jets. Some were checking the missile racks, some were repeatedly flipping through the tactical manuals, and some were doing nothing but leaning against the wheels and staring into space.
Nineteen-year-old Ronin stood beside his Thunderhawk, his heart pounding.
He had checked the seatbelt four times, and each time he felt the buckle wasn't tight enough, so he unbuckled it, rebuckled it, and checked it again.
He wore a faded silver pendant around his neck, containing a photograph of his mother.
He had only spent 120 hours in a simulator for real combat simulations, but had never actually flown in the air. No matter how realistic a simulation is, it is still just a simulation.
There was no death, no real blood, and no bone-shattering jolts like when an engine is hit.
According to the veterans, it's considered good if a company goes out and returns with a squadron.
Thinking about this, Ronin's palms started sweating again.
Just then, Kyle walked over and patted him on the shoulder.
"Don't be nervous, kid. Remember what I taught you: keep speed and stay in formation. Our mission is to empty all our missiles, then retreat. Fire and run, don't linger."
Ronin nodded vigorously.
Kyle smiled and turned to walk towards his old Lightning Fighter.
But no one saw that when he turned around, his fists clenched tightly.
He knew better than anyone that of these young men in their early twenties, less than half would actually make it back alive.
They react quickly and can master driving skills rapidly after having driving knowledge implanted through a brain-computer interface, making them the most suitable candidates to drive the Thunderhawk. However, this is also their first time on the battlefield.
What war excels at is turning new recruits on their first battlefield into numbers on the kill list.
He didn't turn around, but whispered something only he could hear, "I hope you can come back alive."
Command Center.
Kallen stood in front of the control panel, his mechanical tentacles operating three data panels simultaneously. His red mechanical eye scanned the projection repeatedly, his expression more solemn than ever before.
"Bad news, Your Excellency." His voice was a half-tone deeper than usual. "The reinforcements brought by the Allied transport ships are fully prepared, consisting of approximately 1,200 Thunderbolt Heavy Fighter, four times our number."
"In a direct confrontation, we are at a disadvantage."
Kallen pulled up another firepower calculation report marked in red, her tone growing increasingly somber. "There's worse. Our previous firepower calculations had a fatal flaw. The Anvil has been modified, and its hull armor is 1.7 times thicker than we estimated. To completely cripple it, we need at least three times the original plan for a 59.4% success rate."
He paused, then pushed another data panel in front of Fu Haoran. It showed the original weapon configuration plan. "According to the initial stealth payload plan, each Thunderhawk can only carry 8 Air-to-Air Missile in its internal weapons bay."
"This number is barely enough to fight 1,200 Thunder fighters in an air battle; there's simply no extra firepower to deal with the Anvil Destroyer."
This means either abandoning the core objective of bombing Destroyer, or completely abandoning air-to-air missiles and reserving all hardpoints for anti-ship missiles.
"In addition, all 100 Wetware wingmen have been tested and commissioned," Kallen added.
"Using a genetically modified biological brain as an auxiliary core, its reaction speed is three times that of a human, but it lacks the ability to make independent judgments."
"Our plan is to have them fly at the very front of the formation to draw the enemy's initial fire."
Fu Haoran stared at the dense red dots on the screen, his fingers unconsciously tapping the table.
The original plan was to launch a stealth attack and cripple the Destroyer with minimal losses.
But now, the enemy's four-fold numerical advantage has shattered this plan.
"If we use all the internal bomb bays and external hardpoints to carry anti-ship missiles, what's the maximum number we can carry?" Fu Haoran asked.
"28," Kallen immediately replied.
He looked up at Kallen, his tone resolute. "Change it."
Add as many racks as you can.
"But Governor! This would completely destroy our stealth capabilities! Enemy radar would be able to detect us from 300 kilometers away! Moreover, the F-22 Thunderhawk's airframe would become extremely cumbersome, reducing its maneuverability by at least 40%!"
"Stealth is not very useful." Fu Haoran shook his head. "With 300 fighter jets taking off together, even a blind person could see them."
"Instead of hiding it, let's unleash all our firepower."
Fu Haoran pointed to the fighter jet icon on the screen. "Sinking the ' Anvil ' is the only mission."
"If we can unleash all our missiles on that Destroyer before the enemy can react, we'll win."
"But this would leave the pilots with no self-defense capability after dropping their anti-ship missiles. Enemy aircraft arriving at that time would use them as live targets, and it would be almost impossible for them to come back alive." Kallen was not optimistic about this tactic.
"We have no other choice." Fu Haoran's eyes were calm, yet carried an undeniable firmness. "The longer we drag this out, the more enemy reinforcements we'll receive."
"Instead of being passive, let's take the initiative and give them a surprise."
Commander-in-Chief Wade stepped forward. "Sir, but in that case, our pilots might not have any missiles to use in air combat."
"As we launch our attack, the enemy's Thunderbolt Fighter pounce like hungry wolves, leaving our aircraft with no choice but to passively take hits."
A deathly silence fell over the command center.
This is a dilemma: either retain the air-to-air missiles, but fail to destroy the Destroyer, and ultimately be trapped and die in the Hive City.
Either reserve all the missiles for the Destroyer and let the pilots use their machine guns to dogfight an enemy four times their size.
"Then let's have a dogfight." Fu Haoran's voice broke the silence.
"But Governor!" Kallen cried out anxiously, "The F-22 Thunderhawk's original M61A2 Cannon simply cannot penetrate the Thunderbolt Fighter's heavy armor!"
"I know." Fu Haoran nodded, glancing at a document labeled "backup weapons" in the corner of the screen. "That's why I had you prepare those things in advance."
Kallen paused for a moment, then realized what she meant. "You mean— the Avenger Bolt Cannon?"
"That's right." Fu Haoran pulled up the document, which contained weapon blueprints for the Imperial Navy's Avenger Fighter. "Remove all the M61A2 Cannon and replace them with Avenger Bolt Cannon."
66
"But it's too heavy!" Kallen's mechanical eye flashed a red alert frantically. "Even if we add extra fuselage reinforcements to every Thunderhawk, their maneuverability will decrease further. At that point, our pilots will have no choice but to fight the enemy head-on!"
"Let's fight head-on then." Fu Haoran's eyes remained unwavering. "We have no other choice. All missiles must be reserved for the Destroyer, and air combat will have to rely on machine guns."
He looked at the list of young pilots on the screen, his voice low but firm. "Tell all pilots, once you take off, don't think about hiding. The enemy's armor is thicker than ours, and they outnumber us. There's no way to hide. The only way to survive is to charge forward and blow them up before they can hit us."
Kallen remained silent for a long time.
He knew Fu Haoran was right.
In the face of absolute desperation, there is no room for opportunism.
He nodded slowly. "Yes, Your Excellency. I will immediately order all fighter jets to be modified with Avenger Bolt Cannon overnight, and it is expected that it will be completed within six hours."
Fu Haoran turned around and looked at the sun slowly rising on the star map. "Order all troops to launch an attack precisely at dawn tomorrow."
"We're attacking with our backs to the sun; that's the only advantage we can give them."
Kallen remained silent for a long while, then slowly nodded. "Yes, Your Excellency."
Kallen turned to relay the orders.
Fu Haoran was the only one left in the command center.
He looked at the 300 green dots on the screen, each dot representing a living person.
Fu Haoran knew that by this time tomorrow, most of these points of light would have disappeared.
But that's war, and war kills people.