Hey dakkadakka people. Im back...again
and this is my Story
Death Storm which is an Imperial guard story [appearances of the Navy] hoping to be a writer, hope you enjoy.
Please leave feedback and stuff please! 
Could you please answer the pole after reading please
Chapter One- Two Hundred and Eleventh
“Every great commander makes a decision and learns to live with it” General Markus Nicholas, Victor Shank Campaign, 949.M41
The war-torn planet of Cairntarius was surrounded by the endless cold darkness of space as heart warming rays of sunlight radiated to the surface. It was all but quiet except for the distant, echoing sound of engines igniting furiously, strained and tired from endless work. Stars twinkled throughout the darkness, each small burst of light almost as inconsiderate as the next. Miraculously in the distance, a dozen sets of bulky lights moved ever so slowly towards the planet like a pod of whales in the deepest of oceans, passing by the gas giants of the system. The large and irregular vessels glided through the darkness staring across the length of space towards the planet and its two spherical organic filled sidekicks that fell into orbit around it. Once upon a time however, the vessels had been involved in one of the largest scaled planetary invasions in the Imperium’s history, the evidential battle scars lined each and every vessel left, right and centre but now they were here. The Imperial navy they were and within half a dozen of these small Imperial vessels, thousands of eager warriors prepared themselves for the heat of battle ahead of them. In precise synchronisation, sirens roared to life and at that very moment, operation Freefall began.
The fleet sent to the salvation of Cairntarius was a mixed force of Imperial Navy vessels and space ships all made in different forge worlds of the Mechanicus tech-priests, the ancient scientific religion of the tech-priests of Mars, the creators and maintainers of the ancient technology that lead to the creation of advanced weaponry and warp transportation centuries before. In the centre of the fleet, dominating every other vessel was the Resilient of Reach, a Retribution class Battleship that stood out amongst its smaller family, it looked like a giant Cathedral house floating through space with what looked to be a towering church on top towards its rear. The battleship was easily seven kilometres long from its prow to stern and across its surfaces, a mass of sharp-edged, intimidating twin-linked weaponry traversed in each direction through space, scanning for a target that could appear in the distance. On either flank, the battleship bore the markings of the two-headed Imperial eagle, the symbol of the Imperium of man. Next to the eagle was the green and grey insignia of the Imperial Navy 211th Ultima Segmentum fleet. Drifting next to it on the starboard flank of the Resilient of Reach was its vicious partner, the Severitus, an Imperial Endeavour-class light-cruiser that looked like a long dagger in space. It was constructed to be the guard vessel of a fleets command ship.
At the head point of the small fleet was the small cruiser called the Premicar and at the rear of the fleet was the Tybaran. Around these imperial navy ships swarmed a variety of heavily armoured transports and escort ships that moved around the Resilient of Reach and its allies, hovering around them as if to stay close like a young child looking to its mother for guidance and protection.
One of the armoured transports hovered closely towards the centre of the Imperial fleet, its rare form different to that of every individual transport present. It was a Christus-class armoured transport craft produced over twenty-four centuries previous, just before its production plans and memory of it was all but forgotten. It’s gun-metal coat was cut and rusted from hundreds of years in service. It was on board this very armoured transport called the Might of Salvation that housed the Cadian 62nd infantry Regiment, also known as Death Storm.
Hooked into the internal system of the Resilient of Reach via the hydraulic arrestor struts of the command chair, Captain Rohieth Gorth forced down his heart rate evidently slowing down the Resilient of Reach as the engine thrusters died and began to decelerate with his easing beat. Synchronisation mind-impulse cables plugged into his metabolism were hooked into the ancient systems of his vessel with the help of the Adeptus Mechanicus. He could feel every ounce of movement his vessel made, every drop of energy that ran through the ship as well as the reactive response to every thought. He lived and breathed for the vessel as if it were his own body.
Gorth was an eighty-five year veteran naval officer who’d been introduced as a junior officer with his first footsteps aboard all those years before. He had piloted and controlled the Resilient of Reach for so long it felt like the natural movement of walking or extending his body in anyway shape or form. Quiet as a ghost, he glanced down the steep cable-covered steps in front of him into the command chamber below where his several observation officers and navigation directors fixed up course calculations on the crystal clear boards in front of them, whilst many of the present maintenance men moved through jungles of intertwining cables that connected all the systems together. On one of the clear boards at the side of the room, a projector brought up a crackling green hazy projection of the Dessi system and the nine planets that orbited the bright blue Dessi star at the centre. The third planet from the centre was Cairntarius. A handful of men walked around with Data-slate boards in their hands running the latest calculations and organising the necessary command frequencies required to keep the largest vessel in the small Imperial Navy splinter fleet operating.
“Approximately 2 hours until we are in range for the fleet’s troop disembarking, all vessels prepare to make drop” stated an officer into the transmission device in his hands as he added the final touches to the calculations board in front of him.
About time they got out of my fleet, thought Gorth as he quickly thought about all the concerns that had been housed around his fleet since they’d departed five and a half months before. The Mutiny, murders, rivalries, just don’t see that stuff amongst the navy boys like you do with the Guard.
Captain Gorth commanded the third escort party of the Ultima segmentum’s 211th Basalta Imperial fleet. Under the orders of Admiral Abanu Horneteus, he’d taken part of the sub-sectors fleet and escorted a large proportion of Imperial Guardsmen to numerous war-zones across the Ultima Segmentum for the past six years. It was a bloodied career of ambushes, warp storms and horrible death traps throughout the last few months travelling across from one sector to the next at the centre of the galaxies universal west. It was to be the last war-zone that they’d been assigned to transport troops to before returning to their fleet almost five-hundred light years away in the opposite direction that they’d come.
“Sir, we’re picking up another disturbance in the warp” said one of the observers at his forward station.
“A fleet or another false alarm?” Gorth replied in a deep tone as he felt one of the engines jitter and a dozen turrets rotate from the depths of his vessel.
“No sir, but it looks to be another vessel”
Another vessel? There hadn’t been any other naval units heading out to this section of the galaxy since two systems in the area had fallen, but he quickly recalled the other disturbances that had occurred in the last day alone.
“Order the Tybaran on full alert once more. How long exactly till the warp opens?”
The observer looked back at his screen, “Half hour sir. It’ll be oen for only a few seconds”
Gorth turned his attention away from the command chamber and peered down into the next room where his navigators and his most trusted astropath sat ideally still in their silver thrones. Thick cables and colour coded wires ran data and information into their torsos and necks form giant data-servers in the back corner of the room that was surrounded by thick jungles of power cables and landline servers. The navigators stared at each other, all four of them and quickly discussed courses as well as incoming calls from different fleet units that they’d heard. The naval astropath sat still in his seat. His white eyes closed breathing heavily as his great, green robe covered his pale forehead. Gorth knew that the cursed man was blind from the first moment he’d set foot aboard the vessel. It was clear by his perfectly white-globed eyes that had no intentions of holding colour. What had it been? Twelve years now?
He watched slowly as the group of navigators egged on the silent astropath, deceiving the potential that sat before them in the small cramped room.
The astropaths body suddenly shook violently in his seat as the final parts of a message were received into his edgy mind. He mumbled something sharp under his breath as a bead of sweat rolled down his long, rosy-cheeked face.
The astropath aboard the Resilient of Reach was connected to the ships service boards and was the key communication column when it came to broadcasting to other fleet vessels as well as long range messages to the main fleet and to other locations across the segmentum. His mind was also locked in surveying the area for incoming threats through the heavy warp as well as scanning the data-banks for anything important at the current moment in time. It was one of the hardest jobs in the confinement of the command chamber and in the fleet.
“What did he say?” asked Gorth, staring down at the men like a god.
“No idea” replied one of the stressed navigators from his seat as he read off a data slate hovering in front thanks to a cable connected to the side of his head that flashed as he prepared another course to the other side of the system.
“Sir, receiving a message from Admiral Horneteus,” spoke up the Astropath from his quiet low voice,
“What is it?” asked Gorth curiously, and then he felt his head begin to hurt as a voice began to speak to his ageing mind. He knew what it was. Only the astropath knew how to penetrate his mind and at the same time speak to him in secrecy so that the rest of the command crew wouldn’t be able to hear.
“Sir” started the invading voice; “Word is that the main fleet was just ambushed in the Tala sector by an unknown enemy. Most of the fleet is gone. Only a few vessels managed to survive and get away”
Gorth felt his heart quickly skip a beat. At the exact same time, he felt the floor shake violently in the process as the Resilient of Reach jolted to a split second standstill before continuing its course. He clenched his fists into a ball and felt the veins begin to appear along his forehead as he tried once more to ease his heartbeat.
“How long ago?” he asked,
“The message was sent three weeks ago” replied the astropath
Gorth could feel his skin burning as the eyes of half the crew turn his direction after feeling the machine spirit of the Resilient of Reach spasm. He knew what it had come to. He stared out the large blast proof clear window ahead of him. He stared out into the darkness of space, the lights of the allied vessels brightening up the area. Why did it have to come to this? He went through all the likely outcomes that could’ve hit him in the face. He knew he had to make the right decision otherwise this small little part of the main fleet would become extinct, along with an entire Imperial Guard battle group from Segmentum Obscurus. He knew there was only one thing for it.
“All hands on deck!” He shouted in a deep, attention seeking voice. The men stopped and stared at him. “Don’t just stand there! Let’s get moving!”
Within minutes the entire battleship roared to life once more as the battle ready sirens ignited to life. The roars of men echoed through every corridor and every room as the ‘All hands on deck’ order echoed as servitor units awoke for the first time in days and slowly manned their turrets across the hull of the vessel. After half an hour, a squadron of naval marines charged into the command bridge with shotguns at the ready. At the head of the squadron, a bold officer lead them in, great vertical scars lined his dark, wrinkled skin. He stood to attention before one of the observers at the command table. The table showed a heavy green hologram map of the fleet’s position as it drifted into strike formation.
“All personal accounted for; all defence crews are in position with all stations armed and ready.” Stated the dark officer in military dress, a set of dark glasses covered his heavy face as he stood at ease.
“Thank you Major Vul, report back to your post and ensure that discipline and morale are at its highest amongst the men” replied the observer before turning away from the man and back to the maps in front of him.
Captain Gorth stared at the men standing around the command deck. The number had grown from seven individual officers on their shift with a suddenly growth to fifteen. He breathed in heavily as he felt the sudden temptation to light a smoke and suck in the biggest puff of smoke possible. It was the first time he’d wanted one in years. The suspense of waiting on an attack from behind was just too great. Men just stood around anxious to see where the enemy was going to come from.
He remembered all the times that the deceased Captain Tyron had faced the unknown of enemy warships when they randomly appeared out of the warp from the rear of the fleet. It had never been good. Gorth looked down towards the astropath who in return started up at him as if he could feel the suspenseful fear that spread across his face.
He felt his mind collapse once more. “They’re here” mumbled the astropath into his mind in a timid tone that made it sound as if he were haunted.
At that exact moment, the ship shook violently as if it had been pounded with artillery fire. He knew it was time. The machine spirit of the Resilient of Reach knew it was time. Everyone knew it now.
He stared quietly out into the darkness of space; the rare vessel of the Might of Salvation caught his eye once more. The humble, odd vessel was hundreds of years old in its making. It was the only vessel to have not reported struggles with its two regimental passengers on board. Gorth had studied through every single note of which regiments were currently in his fleet. Most of them were unknowns. Not the ones on the Might of Salvation. He could’ve swarm he’d transported the men of the fighting Cadian 62nd ‘Death Storm’ regiment once upon a time. Maybe it had been a few years or even decades now. It was so long ago from a time so long gone and merely tossed aside in time.
***
"Get your fat lazy arses moving and form up!" Shouted one of the old hairless like lieutenants as a thick purple vein popped out of his neck and his forehead. "This is the easiest drill! If you can't get this bloody right ill have every man cleaning this transport seven days a week for a month! Sloppiness like this is what will get men killed!"
One of the giant hanger bays on the Port Side of the Might of Salvation echoed with the sound of boots stamping across the adamantium ground as hundreds upon hundreds of men marched into Company formations, all the fifteen surviving companies from A through to P, as well as the attached Karskin Storm trooper Company alongside the Chimera APC and half-track crews, the elite scout crews of the sentinel company as well as the heavy support companies. When every company reached its formation, the men turned to their left to face the front of the hanger. No man dared to speak or mumble, it was time to be deployed and the lieutenants and sergeants were stressed and busy getting their men ready and disciplined for the arrival of the regimens officers. A large metal blast door hissed open in the left corner of the hanger. No man dared to turn, discipline getting the best of them. They were on show to the regimental headquarters staff. As the doors hissed opened, dozens of officers walked into the room in a slow, relaxed march that seemed effortlessly perfect as they stepped in time. They set the standard for the men, creating a display of discipline and showing to the men the strength that their leaders held upon their shoulders.
"Attend-shun" Shouted one of the young Lieutenants in a loud echoing voice "Officers on deck"
In complete unison, the men clicked their heels together, throwing their arms to their sides standing tall with pride as the officers marched into the room. The Lieutenants turned on their heels so that their focus changed from their battle ready men to their ranking officers entering. Leading the officers with his hands held behind his back, shoulders high and his chest exploding out in front was the regiment’s priceless commanding officer. Colonel Toilken Blacksire. The officers walked into the hanger in a thin column formation. Blacksire strode at the point of his men with his eight regimental staff officers following behind him with the numerous Captains of each company behind them which were initially tailed by the regiment’s confessor and two most honoured priests.
Blacksire was a favourite amongst the men, a courageous officer who had led the regiment on numerous battlefronts and had survived alongside them. Even as he glimpsed around the rows and columns of his men, he could see their eager spirits slowly begin to lift once more. To them, he was the regiments Hero. He was passionate about his men and on different occasions tried to decorate all the survivors of the 62nd regiment with medals. Unfortunately the ranking tacticians and generals disapproved and only some of his captains were decorated.
At fifty-one years of age, he still had a lot of fight left in him with many wounds to prove it. As an officer, Blacksire had been issued with slightly different fatigues to the rest of the men. He wore the traditional light yellow fatigues, the pants covered in desert camouflage. His dark green flak armour covered his chest and wrapped around to his back with flak pads around his broad shoulders as well as thin slices of armour around his shins and waist. Over his traditional clothing, he wore a brown furred greatcoat that passed his knees and on it in the top left corner were his decorations of medals and other stripes the regiment had received from his commanding officers. Across the front of his flak armour, he bore the traditional Imperial eagle. It was the seal that every Cadian man had on their armour just broader. Sitting on top of the man’s head instead of a green flak helmet was a light brown officer’s hat with a brim that covered a light scar across his thick forehead.
Blacksire stopped walking in the middle of all the companies so that everyone could see him. The men that entered the hanger behind him continued, the Captains stopped and stood alongside their Company staff whilst Blacksire's own staff stood behind him standing tall behind their leader.
Before Blacksire prepared to give orders, he stood still looking out amongst the men, patiently waiting. Waiting to hear those dreaded footsteps that would enter the room. Thirty seconds later, he heard it. From the same door he had come through a trio of lean, intimidating men appeared. All of them were wearing black leather greatcoats with red and gold outliner across them. They were men that appeared not to be of Cadian blood, they didn't seem to have the same white tones of skin that most of the men possessed nor the blue or purple eyes, but rather the opposite. They were Commissars. They were the men that were in charge of discipline as well as enforcing the courage of the Immortal Emperor. They were the finest of warriors, though to cruel to the men fighting alongside them. A lot of the men swallowed deeply as they tried all too hard to block out the dark thoughts about the three men, most failing quicker than a man trying to fly. They were unpopular amongst everyone in the regiment. Officers could not stand them at the best of times. They just weren’t known in the regiment. They walked in, standing adjacent to the company on the far left, looking out at the men with watchful eyes.
A man handed Blacksire a transmission device for Blacksire to speak into. He tapped it with his leathery hand and a loud echo engulfed the hanger. He cleared his throat and looked out among his men. The very men who expected their leader to guide them in the field of combat.
"Soldiers of the sixty-second Death Storm Regiment; you are the brave souls that will live out our valiant name. By the will of the almighty Emperor, we will succeed on this day with the loyal assistance of the Confessor; the priest-hood as well as the Commissars!” Blacksire glanced over at Confessor Isonguar to his right who tried to hide a smug grin that slowly twitched across his face. Then he glanced at the three dark-coated men standing amongst the waves of men, their intimidating appearance startled Blacksire before he continued once more.
"The planet Cairntarius is suffering under Heretic and Renegade insurgencies planet wide. This is a loyalist planet, our fellow cousins of the Imperium. Gentlemen, we all know what happens to traitors of all kinds. They are punished before the emperor by the hand of his inexhaustible armies! Today the traitors will be punished by us! Those Heretics won't know what’s already at their doorstep" Blacksire despised this so called religion and worshipping of false gods. It had mutated its believers into creatures of devils, delinquents massed murderers. They turned regiments on their brothers, turned good men into lunatics who questioned sinfully and turned away from the emperor to the dark forces of Chaos. Blacksire had witnessed it one time to many. The worst time was on the scarred planet Kartarous. The 62nd had been on the defence since they landed in individual troop-ships. Wave after wave of Chaos forces charged at the Imperial stronghold for seven days straight. One of his Lieutenants cracked on the fifth day, right when it wasn't required, his orders were clumsy, his men were being led on a chaotic push towards the eastern wall and before anyone knew it; every man was dead, killed instantly by an unknown force coming from the rear. At the end of the sixth day, Blacksire and his officers had been walking around the stronghold where they stumbled across the Lieutenant. His name was Nerfa, he was hiding in a corner, his pupil’s dilated and blood red. He sat there, holding his knees rocking back and forth like a crazed psycho path like a scene from a murderous film. The room he hid in smelt terrible like the smell of the rotting corpses outside the strongholds walls. One of the commissars had walked in, taken one look at the lieutenant and in front of Blacksire executed him with his plasma pistol, incinerating the man in an instant. Bit overkill. That was the first time Blacksire had ever witnessed before him one of his men turn to the likes of Chaos. There were numerous occasions after, for the next eight years, there would always one. For some reason it had never been the rookies, the 'fresh meat' but it had been the grizzly sergeants and veterans who seemed to change after continuous campaigns that crippled their fabric minds. Not even the Confessors could save them half the time.
"Days of preparation have gone into this! We are here to save these poor souls! Not bring harm to them! Most of us have fought traitors to this day and the Emperors other enemies that roam the galaxy. They’re just pests! We have had many victories from fighting these foul traitors, from Pentasio, Victor Shank, Plasosa, Guamous, and most recently Gambla. We have some of the best decorations in the whole damned guard stretching back four hundred years! Our courage, our determination, and our muscle will hold us victorious!” he looked hard at the men with weary eyes. He looked at the men, scanning their faces as he spoke out to them. He knew the names of most of them. The veterans who he'd fought alongside so many times and led into battle. Many had scars, wounds and even the growing trend of bionic artificial limps that stood out under their combat dressing, many of which had been gained from his individual orders that he'd given during the numerous campaigns into hell and back. A lot of them grinned back at him, most of them stood emotionless at attention as they listened and many made them appear as if they were listening to his pointless speach. They made him proud, wearing their uniforms with pride, Cadia's finest warriors in his books.
Then it hit him.
By the Throne, there are so many fresh faces in the regiment. Why had so many of my most trusted men perished so soon? Had I made too many mistakes that had lead to the deaths of the regiments finest? No, I can't think like this we're about to go into the fight of our lives. These fresh souls will have a lot to prove to earn their permanent place in the ranks of the Death Storm, hopefully they'll survive a lot longer than their seven month long combat training, if that were ever possible. Most of them barely lasted a few good hours in the heat of a frontal combat.
Blacksire turned to one of the men standing next to him, Major Don Airfex, his second in command. Without saying a thing, Airfex nodded and Blacksire knew what it meant. It was time to board.
“General Markus Nicholas is only too fortunate to have the likes of the 62nd under his command! Today we put the 62nd name into the history books once more; we will give the largest contribution, the greatest effort and the strongest thrust to save this planet! We will bring ourselves greater honour and we will succeed! We will stand on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder! We will face the enemy heads high, as brothers! We will break them and they shall not break us!” He shouted “Death storm!”
Then the men almost in unison replied with “AND
WE SHALL SUCCEED!"
Their spirits lifted by the not so encouraging speech given by their commander. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
"Look to your right men! That is our vessel to the surface! Those Navy boys will be our protection! Pray to the emperor, pray that you will see tomorrow, and pray that our landing is successful! Pray for our protection men! Today is our day! Emperors speed“ shouted Blacksire at the top of his lungs, “Captains, get these brave men on board!”
He couldn't help but watch the men standing tall, long grins that almost fell off their faces and the fact that they looked as if they were speaking to a god. He saluted the men in front of him, all three thousand of them, the best men he reckoned the Imperium of man had to offer. They clicked their heels together and saluted their Colonel.
"A Company, let’s move out!" shouted the captain of Alpha Company as he got the men to pivot on their toes and turn to their right.
In the hanger bay sat a rare landing craft with a very large and long abstract shape, with its own adamantium uniqueness. It was at least twenty-five metres tall and almost two hundred metres long from head to toe. Two chunky ramps folded out along the portside that slowly made contact with the hanger floor as well as a fat cargo ramp that folded out at the base of the nose. One ramp was able to feed a single armed vehicle at a time whilst the other could support a marching fire team at once. Standing at the top of the ramp was a navy boy, wearing black and grey fatigues and a silver helmet with a respirator breathing system hanging off his uniform. He stood there waiting, waiting for the men to file into the landing craft.
"Five at a time, sixth platoon you first" shouted the captain. His name was Captain Bal Chieves, a man with great skill and potential. His face was lined with a fine blonde beard that he’d forgotten to shave away, his mystical purple eyes scarred by the horrors of war. Blacksire looked at him. Chieves was trying to get the men moving as fast as possible, even if they couldn't move any faster up the ramp and into the landing craft. Could he be the next successor of this regiment? Then Blacksire looked around at the other officers standing by their men, talking to them, giving them the break down, and updating them as they stood in blocks of men. A lot of the officers he couldn't stand, they were great warriors yet what they lacked was heart and belief. A lot of them played it by the book, simple orders, using the same tactics over and over again like a fish in its tank doing the same routine every day. Lots of men had been killed lately, in their last campaign seven months previous, some of the commanders had made it out. His entire Q and H Companies had been obliterated out of existence when their company commanders lead them into an enemy strongpoint deep within the Macarou Mountains of Gambla under orders from the higher ups. Gambla was a planet where nature had once strived before Chaos had turned it into a planet of mere catastrophic disasters. Thousands of Guardsmen had been killed with billions of civilians massacred. Q and H Companies had been on foot scouting different paths of the mountains only thirty kilometres away, and they never returned to base. Over a hundred bodies were found three days later, strung to dead trees and hanging from high cliff points with bullet holes and shrapnel riddled through them, most of the bodies had been found. Over two hundred and fifty bodies were never found. What happened to them? Had they become Chaos and betrayed their brothers? Or had they fallen in battle to the enemy? Blacksire changed his train of thought. Couldn't think of the past, especially if it was about Heretics, the Emperor forbid it.
"Colonel Sir, the pilots want a word with you in person" Said Harnzer, one of his hands pressed against the side of his helmet listening to what was being said.
Blacksire nodded, then turned to look at how the loading was going, thankfully, two more companies had been loaded into the landing craft, twelve more infantry companies to go as well as the vehicle crews and the medical supplies. Blacksire walked over to the landing craft, heading for the pilots deck at the nose of the landing craft. He passed the lines of C -third- Company as they loaded in. He recognised some of the men. He hadn't known their names, not that he could remember them anyway. Isn't there a Basilone in that Company? Apparently he should be the next company CO. On the starboard side of the ship closest to the nose, a doorway sat opened, automatically, without a flinch of hesitation, Blacksire walked in. He walked through a maze of corridors that passed the cargo bay housing the chimera APC's and the supply vehicles. Then he cut around a corner heading towards the pilot’s deck. After a few minutes of slow walking, he approached the deck. Inside it, four officers sat at different stations flicking switches, talking into Vox-systems, communicating with the ship’s crew. One of the pilots looked at him then stood tall.
"Officer on deck" He called out, standing to attention
"At ease corporal" replied Blacksire looking at the pilot’s stripes on his left shoulder. "You wanted a word?"
"Yes, Colonel Blacksire, I am Lieutenant Myers" Stated one of the pilots at the control sticks as he rose from his seat "Just wanted to inform you that all fifty vehicles below deck in the hanger are secured, eighty percent of the ammunition and medical supplies have been successfully loaded and all systems are go. Once all your men are secured we shall be taking off immediately"
"Good, Lieutenant, for the sake of my men, fly this bird steady. I know we’re the rear guard, but anything could happen here."
"Don't worry Colonel, me and my crew had this bird for over five years. Call her Radient Fist and we haven’t broken it once, never fear, we've got this"
"Good, as soon as we touchdown I want all naval crews releasing the men from their” he replied, slowly realising what he meant by ‘haven’t broken it yet’
"Understood sir, happy hunting Colonel" replied Myers before saluting the Colonel,
Blacksire returned the gesture and walked out of the pilot’s deck heading back to his staff readying himself for combat.
***
"Lieutenant Basilone! Get your ass over here now!" Shouted the agitated Captain Peaker’s at the top of his lungs as he watched the steady loading of C Company into the landing craft
"Yes sir?" asked Basilone as he approached
"Your men are moving to slow! Get them out of my sight now! And why are they out of battle-dress?" shouted the company commander, juicy veins pulsing out of his wrinkled forehead.
"Sir, I was getting them prepared for combat, can't have a platoon all tight in their new battle-dress fatigues I mean we could be in the thick of it."
"I don't care about the uniforms; I want to know is why they are smoking and taking their sweet little time!"
"I'll get them moving quicker sir" Said Basilone as he saluted, turned and walked away uneasily
"Oh and Basilone, command has selected your platoon to go on scout patrol" Peaker’s voice shouted at his back
"Yes sir" He called back, Basilone hated their company commander. He was in Basilone’s words an almighty pain in the arse. Even from the days when Captain Peaker’s had been the platoon commander of second. Scraping at almost two metres tall, Basilone was just as tall as most of the men in the company, if not just taller. His streaked brownish-blonde hair stood out under his green combat helmet as he strode away. Why in the Emperors name do they always pick on my platoon? Maybe it’s because we're the most successful? Basilone never meant to brag but it was true his platoon always scored highest in the shooting range onboard the Might of Salvation as well as in fitness and teamwork. The only platoons that could actually beat his own were the platoons from the Karskin storm trooper company that had been attached to the 62nd at Gambla. At least this time, my new replacements will be able to test themselves in the heat of battle, he thought to himself ever so slowly as he reached the rest of the platoon.
"Hey Lieutenant, what was that all about?" asked Sergeant Tom Backston his naturally loud voice could be heard from half a kilometre away.
"Apparently we’re getting sloppy, we all are. We have more to prove during this campaign. Think we just got our scouting orders." Replied Basilone
"With all due respect sir, Peaker's not going to be able to lead us into combat. He's going to get a lot of us killed." stated trooper Oman Bergenson, one of the veteran warriors in Backston’s squad.
"Bergie, don't worry about him, listen to Basilone over here and you’ll be fine. Remember that messy time on Gambla with Biscotsa over here?" asked Backston
"Hell yeah I do serge! Biscotsa over here on goes on point as ordered by Basilone and trips down a hill and lands on a pile of elephant poop, found us the enemy straight after that" He replied starting to chuckle
"Yeah, and he started screaming for his mummy" Shouted Mason Arcange as he started roaring with laughter.
"Shut up, it’s not my fault that you guys threw me on point in the first place, I just got to the damned regiment!!" argued Biscotsa trying to defend himself. It didn’t help that the final stages of the Gambla campaign was all the combat experience he had.
Basilone chuckled at the thought. Most of the men here had been there and witnessed it firsthand. Back then everything had been so hard, days and days in the mud covered mountains, days with barely any rations and the days when they were losing good men every day.
"Hey Deighton, what’s with the long face? Cheer up will you?" asked Backston, still trying to stop laughing at Biscotsa
"Nothing sir, just praying is all" He replied, the youngest trooper and one of the latest replacements to arrive at the end of the Gambla campaign, barely looked eighteen under his flak armour. He was beyond skinny. Basilone and Backston could almost wrap their hands around his biceps if there was anything there.
The men started telling stories about the past to each other, just about everyone in Backston’s squad had experienced combat one way or another except Alao Deighton and Vern Grosvenor who’d been present at Gambla but had just arrived on the surface to meet the regiment when the fight was over. Basilone knew the squad well. He'd been their leader once upon a time. It had been what? eighteen months since he last lead a squad into combat. Now he looked after up to seventy men at the best of times, only seven times what he was use to. Not many had been lucky to survive all those campaigns and it was rarely ever that a majority of those survivors made it time after time again. Lucky he had a complete five squads now with the heavy-weapons support up his sleeves. He looked at the men in the squad has they moved up the metal ramp into the cold metal hallways of the landing craft. He knew them well; Backston, Bergenson, ond man Jackson, Arcange, Luzer, Biscotsa, Styrka, Grosvenor, Deighton and Pratt. It was his entire third squad under his command.
"Good luck boys" Basilone mumbled as he watched the men file in. He started checking on the men in the rest of second platoon, he didn't quite take the time to know everyone as well as third squad. Lots of the replacements were bound to die the next few days, a lot of men in general were.
"Pray for the Emperors protection men! Pray that your recent training has served you well!" He called out as he passed the ranks of the last few squads.
He breathed deeply and when the rest of the platoon filed in, he followed them, the men in his command section, leading the way. Into the landing craft they went, ready for the battle ahead. He stood silently next to his vox-trooper Caobler as he chuckled silently, the joyous mascot of the platoon.
***
Karfe Jackson followed silently behind Backston, his squad mates talking loudly as they moved through the hallways. He listened silently as Bergie and Arcange argued about who should have gotten some stunning blonde back on Gambla. Jackson couldn't stand it, the way they talked about girls. He remembered when he’d once been married, he was seventeen back then. He'd been a happy man before hive gangsters changed everything only weeks after his marriage. He'd only turned his back for a second and before he knew it, it was over. The thing that he'd loved most gone in a second. It was two months later that he left Cadia behind to join the ranks of the Guard. He scratched his shallow face, feeling a scar that was left behind at the base of his chin. A memory of that fateful night he’d never forget. He shook away his emotions and looked around the naval landing craft through his sky blue eyes as he walked steadily through it, the cold look of the slowly rusting metal discouraging him of his potential safety on board.
They reached the cargo-bay and glimpsed its contents. In it dozens of Chimera APC's and half tracks alike with anti-aircraft weapons and the regiments two-legged sentinel units. Naval officers finished off locking down solid tarps over the vehicles and securing iron beams over the sides to keep them secured in place just in case there was a crash. Jackson had known many of the regiment’s drivers. He didn't know how he'd gotten along with them so well. Maybe it was because they were all around the same age. Maybe it was because a lot of them had come from the same Hive city as him back on Cadia. Or maybe it could have been because most of them had been around when he’d joined up all those years before. He knew he was easily one of the oldest around the regiment. At fifty-nine years of age, he had more experience than a lot of the lieutenants and officers that came through the ranks to lead them. He'd been in the field of combat longer than that of Basilone, Backston and a bit longer than Blacksire who were all easily between ten years and thirty years younger than he was, to be more specific, Basilone was in fact thirty-eight, Backston thirty-nine, Bergenson thirty-one and the almighty Blacksire at fifty-one. Jackson was one of the most veteran troops around besides the old men in the tactical facility and one or two other oldies in the regiment. He knew that a lot of the new recruits looked up to him as a hero, a man with great wisdom. In other words, they’re not so official father. Even Backston asked for advice from time to time.
"Karfe!" Called Backston, Jackson, looked up at his sergeant "far out, how many times do I have to call your name"
"Enough until I hear you sir" replied Jackson, as he continued to walk past
"Hey Jackson, I heard some girl at Gambla Hoist offered herself to ya, how was it"
"That’s none of ya good business" replied Jackson chuckling as he moved.
"Woah...Calm down, just trying to ease the tension, this is a mess what we’re going into"
"I know that much, if you keep to yourself, you'll be calmer, don't think about anything. Anything at all" Replied Jackson
"Gotcha" Replied Biscotta as he breathed in "OH what in the throne? What is that dammed smell?"
"Sorry!" shouted Grosvenor
"Come on man, it smells like the rear end of a Orgyn and you go and fart like that, we've got to breathe in that recycled crap later" complained Bergenson clenching his free hand around his nose.
Jackson just shook his head in disbelief. "You are such a girl, Bergie, you’re in the wrong regiment, your suppose to be with the 68th" the 68th being an all female Cadian infantry regiment that was barely deployed at all.
In the distance Jackson could hear the rumble of a Chimera's powerful motor as it died down, the sound of talkative guardsmen filled him whole. He felt as if he was going to explode. When will we ever find silence when we aren't under attack? I'm sick to death of this, just a few minutes of quiet, Emperor please, just a few minutes of no talking, no whispering. Just silence. Silence.
That is all Jackson wanted, a few minutes of quiet time, as corrupting as thinking about the past was, he liked to reflecd on the things he'd done, the good and the bad alike. It made him feel human.
Second platoon followed behind third platoon which was lead by the notorious Lieutenant Darwin Vander. He was a man of great talent and skills in combat, a natural warrior, though he wasn't the greatest of leaders. Everyone had a flaw; his flaw was leading the men into ambushes in training exercises, always forgetting to get his men stocked up with a solid supply of ammunition when it was needed and being a low life scum from the lower levels of the Hive cities back home. A lot of the men in third platoon were replacements from Cadia who'd been shipped over to replace the fallen. At least one thousand five hundred of the three thousand men had been shipped over to replace the fallen just as the regiment landed on Gambla, Company numbers were still down at just over sixty-eight percent. Everyone noticed it at one stage or another, especially on board in the passenger holds. Backston’s squadron was up the front of second platoon leading the way, as they spoke to each other, they watched as third platoon rounded a corner and began to disperse up a steel staircase leading up to the next floors, the loud sound of their footsteps echoing as if there once was complete silence around them. The long stair case was like a tunnel; it spread at least three-and-a-half metres across and was much steeper. The walls lined with layers of metal surfaces riveted together instead of moulded, strong bright orange lights lined the edges of each step, lighting a clear, visible path through the darkness. Jackson gripped the iron hand rail to the side, and used it as support on his way up. He'd been in numerous passenger holds, but this one had for some reason had been a lot steeper than he'd anticipated. Everyone around him gripped it as they took a step up. The gap between railings was wide enough for two people to walk up at the same time, to Jackson’s right was Biscotsa. Every now and then someone would miss a step and automatically come crashing onto a knee. Biscotsa was the first. Without a railing for support, he hit the deck but automatically reaching to either side of him for support.
"Watch your step dumb-ass, we don't wanna play dominos today mate!" laughed Arcange as everyone started chuckling at Biscotsa
"You're embarrassing the squad" mumbled Backston from upfront as he turned away and continued stomping up the stair case.
Jackson couldn't help chuckle at Biscotsa's clumsiness, a face of surprise and shock had spread across Biscotsa's face as he had fallen, his eyes widened as he looked to either side of him, his mouth wide open and his hands reaching for anything in arms reach.
By the time everyone had stopped picking on the poor man, they had reached one of the twenty-three passenger holds. The men loaded into the room in lines of two, perfectly in time with each other as if the moment had been rehearsed countless times. The passenger hold wasn't quite as big as the others around the close to two-hundred metre long landing craft. It had a similar layout though, around the edges of the room sat dozens of seats with metal impact frames above each seat. In the centre of the room sat row after row of the same seating arrangements. Jackson looked around the room, every man was given orders to stay with their platoons when they were in the passenger holds for reasons that were quite directly unknown. Maybe it was for organisation? Or maybe quick assembly or possibly even to work out where everyone was in case a disciplinary act was required. The rows along the back and side walls had been completely full along. Third, fourth and fifth platoons had already walked in and were seated, there was only two platoons as well has the company headquarters left to be stationed. Jackson followed his sergeant to a row of empty seats along the front of the room. The men removed the large camo-green packs from their backs and quickly placed them under their seats in its holding place. A lot of the men placed their weapons under their seats as well, many of them keeping them in between their legs in arms reach. Jackson removed his pack, firstly taking out his lucky bayonet and its sheath and placing it onto his belt as he sat down. Then from one of the four side pockets, he pulled out a clear rubber mouth guard that fit perfectly in his mouth. Just about everyone was seated before he was and as he sat down he slid his pack into its hold underneath him, and sat back, his trusty M-36 las-rifle seated on his lap. He reached up above his heavy head and grabbed the handgrips of the impact frames and pulled them over him locking them into place.
He heard the cranking click as the impact frames locked into place. He tilted his head from side to side, cracking it ready for combat as he looked around at the familiar faces of the men. Opposite him sat Biscotsa, Stykra, Grosvenor, Bergie and other men from the platoon’s squads. Most of them looked too young to be in the heat of war, most were promoted from the junior-whiteshields when the regiment touched down on Gambla.
Jackson removed his mouthguard and began to speak "Where's your weapon Biscotsa?"
"Underneath my seat" He replied anxiously as he stared at the rusted ceiling
"If you want to live trooper, you should've put it in arms reach; anything can go wrong with these dammed systems"
"We're not going to need them, hello, fully armed transport, with naval crews on standby, as well as being the reserve unit, I think we're safe"
"Jackson's right trooper, look around you, everyone in the squad has their weapon but you" spoke up Backston
"Sir, I didn't know, no one told me" stated Biscotsa embarrassed.
"Jackson, pass Biscotsa your spare mouth guard will you" Asked Backston
"Yes sir" he replied as he reached into a concealed pocket on his right arm pulling out a spare one that reeked of gym socks.
He chucked it to Biscotsa and just as Biscotsa placed it hesitantly into his mouth, the whole floor suddenly began to shake. That can't be the engines can it? Everyone looked around, the few naval officers that were standing in the passengers dock quickly ran out of the room, one turning back to announce what had just happened
"Hostiles just open fired on the fleet, orders are to hurry up with the loading, and we leave in two minutes." shouted the man before bolting out of the room after his comrades.
"Told you" Shouted Jackson as he chuckled before a booming siren sounded across the landing craft and a spinning red glaze filled the room from the ceiling. "Say your prayers gentlemen, Emperor bless your souls!"
The ground shook uncontrollably again as they heard an explosion erupt outside. The door in the passenger hold sealed with a metallic hiss like that of a cobra snake. Everyone listened to their headsets built into their helmets, their squad mates trying to ease the moment.
Everyone was ready, except for the last members of the Karskin Company on board. Only three quarters of them had finished loading in before the engines of the landing craft picked up and began to take off into space. Ready for combat, the constant sirens continued to go off for a matter of minutes as the landing craft got into space.
The pilots could see the hostile space craft, they underestimated its size. It was a flagship. One of the largest, and oldest of its kind. It was a Heretic flagship opening fire on the fleet. Used by those of the traitor legions from the times of Horus.
Thanks for reading chapter 1
