"Echo Nine Seven, this is Mauler Two Three Six! Be advised; we have made enemy contact! Position bearing Delta Niner Sixer, range is at 500 meters! Target appears to be some sort of customized greenskin battlewagon..."

Cutting off the scout's report mid-sentence, I killed my radio, sending the cab of my Sentinel into a silence that seemed to roar louder than the report had been. It was always that way on a hunt; one had to get used to the silence, in order to listen to his environment, his machine, and himself. The Code of the Hunt encouraged it. Glancing at my control panel, I saw that my promethium supply was at full. Gait support checked out in the green, and the 1000 round belt feed attached to the heavy bolter fixed to my port side was also locked and loaded. Switching my radio over to my command freq, I punched in the code for 'all hands.'

"Marauder command to all Marauders! Target is within 500 metres of lead scout position, 1 klom south-east. Lock and load weapons, prepare for engagement. Meathead, I want you on point with your lascannon. The rest of you hunt-dogs, form up behind. Meathead's on point, he gets to engage first."

Over the vox-link, I could hear the cackling coming from Meathead's circuit. He had a knack for springing into an engagement, and blasting apart half the opposition before they even realzed that a Sentinel had shown up. We all excelled at that; they didn't call us 'Marrus's Marauders' for nothing. Our actual outfit was called the Aldasian 3rd Light Infantry Regiment. About two years ago, our home-world of Aldasia received it's First Founding, and three regiments of light infantry specialists had been recruited. Because of our home-world's small population size, we never had more than five regiments at a time. After our first deployment to a jungle-world called Frond IV, High Command realized that the 3rd's Sentinel pilots were the best they'd ever seen. In fact, the campaign would still be going on today, if it wasn't for the bold hit-and-run tactics displayed by the Sentinel scouts of the 3rd. Taking the hint, they formed up not only the 3rd's, but all Aldasian Sentinel platoons into their own units, called detachments. From there, we could be assigned to any warzone, independently of our regiments.

Two years after the founding of Detatchment 217, we were now deployed on an agri-world calledThestle. Thestle is the second planet from it's star, and the most lush world in the segmentium. Naturally, the Orks, wanting a stable base for thier boyz to graze on in preperation for an upcoming Waaaaaugh or two, were now in dispute over the planet. The war had been ongoing for just over a year when Detatchment 217 had shown up. In the two months we'd spent on-planet, we'd been honing our hunting skills, performing manoevering and firing drills for hours in the burnt out fields beside our little outpost. While my men had grumbled at the practice, they decided to show up nonetheless. I knew that I couldn't make them do it, but, sheer boredom forced them into action. This was our first operation, and my men were raring to go.

A certain Ork warboss called Da Turba was known to roam within the lush forests and fields of Thestle, picking off convoys with his horde of warbikes, buggies, and his prized battlewagon. High Command had ordered us to track the Ork to his lair, and destroy his entire convoy. This was not unusual work for us. Coming from Aldasia, we were already masters at the art of hit-and-run warfare, as well as hunting big prey. More of that later. Our prey was approaching.

Peering out the re-enforced windscreen, the huge deep-root trees outside masked our ambush force, their large fronds breaking the outlines of our machines. A dirt path ran not twenty meters from where my men waited. In the distance, the sound of roaring engines was audible even through the armored cab of my machine. Perfect.

The Orks were probably on their way to hit up yet another agri-factory. Despite frequent warnings by the PDF, the farmers insisted on staying with their fields and their livestock. Damn fools. One who doesn't follow the Code must understand that staying rooted to one spot in times of crisis is beyond stupid. You must be like the wind; unpredictable, constantly moving. Well, if my boys stole their livestock, shot up their barns, and dated their daughters, it would be their own damn fault for not leaving.

Smoke began billowing in from beyond the small hill in front of us. The wind had changed direction, and it was bringing with it the smell of Ork promethium. It stung the insides of my nostrils, even through the cab. Powering up my engine with the master switch, I offered a quick prayer to the machine spirit of my Sentinel, asking it for endurance and strength in the coming fight. The engine seemed to purr just a little louder. "Marauder Master to all Marauders. Standby for engagement." There were no more each man knew the plan, as we had mashed it out by our campfire the night before. Sentinel pilots were known to be fickle, independent hotheads, and Aldasians were worse than most. It was a bad idea to try to yank my pilots about on a leash like the Commisars in other regiments did. Sure, Aldasians had Commisars within their ranks. Whether they did any good was debatable. Over the green-covered hill, the ramshackle vehicles of the greenskins roared their introduction, and zoomed down the road at top speed. The first ones to arrive were warbikes; a dozen of them. They were festooned with amulets, trinkets and loot acquired from previous raids. The red-painted bodies and ornate goggles the riders wore proved that these particular ones came from the local Cult of Speed. Yelling and whooping, they zoomed ahead of the main force trundling along behind them.

Over the hill, two wartrukks appeared, each one painted black, loaded up with a dozen boyz each. These boys hung off the outsides of the truck, brandishing cleavers, axes, and the occasional shoota. Their green faces had been dyed red, and ornate tribal tattoos and ritual scars dotted their impressive, muscular bodies. Obviously these ones were vetran fighters, on their way home to their base camp after a successful raid. The ramshackle big shoota bolted to the windscreen of each one could prove problematic.

Behind these ones was...nothing. Something was wrong. Where the hell was the battlewagon? I glanced to my left and right. On my left, Meathead, Tatters, and Striker lay in wait, their lascannons primed and ready to go. On my right, Amazon, Bloodfiend, Hailstorm, and Blade waited, their autocannons locked and loaded. I could see the expressions of each and every one of them through their windscreens. Even without seeing their faces, I could tell their mood by how they had set themselves up. They were intense, calm, patient, but not angry. Good. Fury was a blessing some times, but not for ambushes. One had to be patient, calm, and accepting of the fact that the enemy would not always react as expected. These were Orks. They always reacted when expected.

As the outriders in front of the main column passed my position, I could smell their rancid breath, even from here. Powering up my target-er, I gripped the twin joysticks to either side of me. My finger tensed on the trigger. I would not engage. I had promised that honor to Meatball. His suspension was low, his cab nearly touching the ground. Inside the cockpit, I could see him busily flicking switches, getting ready to 'pop.' The first outrider passed within twelve meters of Meatball. He suddenly stopped, leading on one massive green leg. Pulling of his helmet, he sniffed the air, his grotesque features changing from confusion, to rage, and finally to glee. Swiveling his massive Ork skull, he was about to bellow a reply down the line, when he was incinerated. The red beam seemed to come out of nowhere, melting his tank, and causing it to explode. A massive, bipedal figure leaped out of the of the underbrush, sweeping across the line of bikers with it's lascannon. Meatball had engaged.

"Go!" I yelled over the command freq, slamming both of my joysticks forward. My Sentinel sprang out of it's hiding place by the tree, sprinting like a wild chicken as it smashed through the young sapling separating me from the gang of warbikers. Lining the surprised group up on my target-er, I crushed the trigger with my left hand. The chattering of my heavy bolter mashed the group of riders into mush, spraying their remains all over the roadway. None of their homemade armor could stop a bolt at fifty yards. Out of the dozen, half managed to pull their iron steeds into a U-turn, dashing back to their convoy.

"Amazon!" I roared! She swerved her Sentinel, crushing the torso of a mortally wounded Ork lying on the roadway. Inside the cockpit, she took careful aim, and fired. Her autocannon bucked in it's carriage, and the stream of fat shells raked the retreating bikers. Three of them fell, their machines punctured by explosive projectiles. One had his green back ripped open, and he fell, his bike still carrying his bottom half towards the wartrukks. The remaining two skid-turned behind the two trukks, out of sight. The trukks didn't stop moving. From inside their open cabs, the gretchin riggers yanked hard on levers, swinging out what looked like a massive wrecking ball on each of them. My boys had deployed, and all nine of us were sitting ducks on the roadway. Without discussion, Amazon, Blade and Meatball separated, crashing through the underbrush to our right. The rest of us went to the left, each of us struggling to control our machines and retain our targeting. This had been our plan the night before. Our practice paid off.

Without pause, we unleashed a hail of las-bolts and shells towards the trukks. The underbrush and the trees to our front were hiding our movements, making it difficult for the greenskin gunners to draw a bead on us. At home, we called this hunting trick Two Ghosts. It was a favorite of my clan. Greenskins, being the breed that they were, could not resist the challenge. They emptied belt after belt of ammunition at us. The trees stopped most of it, though I took several glancing hits to my cab, which starred the glass, and dented part of the chassis. Glancing down for a moment to my ammunition counter, I saw that it read 650. Frak! I'd started out with a thousand! Aiming up, I fired burst after burst into the Ork riders.

The Orks hadn't bothered to jump off their wartrukk, preferring to hand on, and throw stickbombs at us. This idea was both idiotic and brave. Blade fired off about a hundred rounds at the trukk. The black trukk was soon painted bright red as the Orks succumbed to the hailstorm of death. Not to be outdone, I fired off a neat little burst which ripped through the cab, through the grechin (cleaving him in two) and out through the back of the driver's head. Slumping over the wheel, he turned it over, sliding off his seat limply to fall under the wheels of his wartruuk. Thanks to this, the driver of the other trukk was smashed off the dirt path and collided with a large boulder, causing the engine to explode with the force. Somehow, the Orks on this trukk had managed to survive the bone-jarring impact. They clambered off their wrecked trukk, and tried to charge my Sentinel.

What stupidity, I though. Brave, foolhardy, but stupid. In my own way, I could admire these orks. THey were not willing to give up, despite the overwhelming odds against them. They were prepared to draw out this hunt to the end, and die how they wished. When my time came, I could hope for nothing better. I took my hand off the trigger, and charged them. Firing their crude pistols and yelling, they tried to tackle the legs of my Sentinel, hoping to throw me off balance and topple me over. Instead, I accelerated. Bravely sprinting at my machine, the orks only met death as the legs of my Sentinel pummeled them. Some were smashed beyond all recognition, others were cleaved in two by my machine's feet. Still others were crushed under me. I never stopped moving. Swiveling my torso, I re-armed my heavy bolter...Only to be faced with a Killer kan.

The Kan was just over the hill from where the ork convoy had appeared (I checked my chron. Three minutes ago?) It's red-painted hull was dotted with pits and dings, and the circular saw in it's left appendage was streaked with dried blood. There was something different about this one. It was way too...bulky for a normal Killer kan. "Boss?" My detachment had begun to open fire on the walker with everything they had. Three lascannons and four autocannons would have mashed a Chimera into scrap. It barely dented this Kan. Swinging up it's right appendage, the double shoota boomed a reply. Blade's Sentinel staggered back, it's windscreen and cockpit shattered. Black smoke drifted out of where the exhaust should have been. It toppled over with a crash, and lay still. <They got Blade!> The reply had been from Meatball. His anguish drifted over the airwaves. I knew that she and Meatball had been close. Very close. Aiming at the thing's ocular sensors, I held down the trigger. Dozens of miniature explosions dotted the thing's hull, as each bolt detonated. Meatball charged, his lascannon firing like mad at the thing's cannon-arm. The bolts stopped metres from the thing's armour. It fired again. Meatball toppled as a shell found the right actuators of his knee. He went down, though I could hear him stammering over the vox that he was unharmed.

Advancing, the Kan stepped around the smoking ruin of Blade's machine, and stomped on Meatball's cockpit. Our shooting barely slowed it down. His cockpit exploded under the Kan's tread. I could only hope that he made it. Flicking the safety off of my right trigger, I armed the hunter-killer missile on my starboard side. Aiming for the thing's left leg, I fired. A shrieking sound stabbed at my eardrums, and the missile impacted at the Kan's feet. It toppled. The ground beneath it gave way as the thing's armored shell crashed to the forest floor. For the first time since Meatball opened fire, it was silent.

"Meatball and Blade are down. Did we lose anyone else?" The replies came back. Only they had perished. I was about to order the detachment to fall back to base camp, when I saw the Killer Kan wiggle slightly. It was still operational, somehow. It's feeble arms tried to lift it up. Walking over, I placed a foot on it's chest, stopping it. Pointing my heavy bolter down, I saw through the thick screen, into the eyes of the Ork pilot. They widened, and I fired all the ammunition I had left. One bolt pierced the glass, and blew the Ork's brains out.