Tranch.
A “compliant world”, according to the current Imperial situation reports.
A “peacekeeping operation”, according to our mission briefing.

Gorgon Commando Platoon?
We would rather say “deathpit” and “drop into hell”.

* * *

The Bog.
Explosion.
Crippled.

Calixis Sector, 789.M41
The Green Marsh, somewhere in the Soot Warrens, Tranch Hive world.
Two months ago.

Gorgon Commando Platoon, the battlegroup’s ever-ready quick reaction force, had been assigned to yet another surveillance mission. They were the most hardened troops in the 15th Baraspinan, yet their skills were being wasted on baby-sitting Imperial adepts, sent to the surface to assess the sluggish reconstruction progress. After spending months in the thick of the fight against the mutant hordes, it was proving hard not to appear jaded at that type of mission. They had spread out in an eastward, fan-like formation around the complex where the Administratum emissaries were meeting the local Munitorum specialists. Their mission was simple: monitor the murky, decaying wood that bordered the eastern fringe of the complex – the only place where mutants could come from undetected. Two squads, Gorgon 10 and Gorgon 20, were tasked with defending the compound; the last one, Gorgon 30, had deployed on a forward outpost, deeper into the marsh. With no apparent danger, that routine mission quickly turned out into a “sit-and-wait”. Only two veterans from Gorgon 30 were painstakingly trying to peer through the stale mist that surrounded their position. The others each had their own occupation, a personal hobby that all guardsmen learn to develop shortly after they enlist, both to fight boredom and insanity. Catspaw was desperately trying to hone his non-existent psychic skills by shuffling a deck of the Emperor’s Tarot. Dynes was thoroughly sharpening his standard issue bayonet, almost turning the edge into a mono-blade. Hedgehog, as ever, was trying to convince Old Joe that he would buy a magnificent mansion on Quaddis, after his service in the Imperial Guard. Gunnar was kneeling, chanting with a low voice some psalms he had learned from the Credo Imperialis. Lieutenant Calvin, the squad leader, smiled as he set his piercing blue eyes on each of his trooper, and revelled in their mere presence. However boring that mission was, it still was better than a lifelong labour into a polluted sub-hive.
So when a slightly hunched adept, clad in heavy layers of a stained, purple fabric, limped from the complex to the forward outpost, they barely registered his presence, thinking he was one of their charges, who wanted to feel the “thrill of the war”. They never had a chance to think over it. For the hunched figure was in fact a mutant, a member of the Pale Throng, the very cult that had sparked that harrowing conflict on the planet. Underneath his heavy robes, an explosive device had been crudely grafted to his chest. The mutant glanced around as he stepped inside the combat position, a baleful hatred twisting his already hideous features. The lackeys of the False Emperor are there as predicted, he grinned, before he triggered the murderous device, and died with a soul-chilling shriek that resonated alongside the lethal shockwave.
Out of the ten hardened veterans who had taken position inside the outpost, six were instantly vaporized by the explosion. But worse than death, their essence was prevented from reaching the Emperor’s side, dissolved by the psychic anguish which had merged with the blast upon the mutant’s death. The remaining four survived, shielded from the worst of the explosion by their comrades – thought some say they actually were the unlucky ones. Their limbs had been pierced by deadly shrapnels; their lungs, charred after the heatwave coerced its way down their throat; their bones, shattered by a concussion that could have broken an Ogryn skull. The heat of the blast had caused las power packs to explode inside their webbings, adding acidic burns to the already horrendous wounds they were suffering from. One group had rushed in to evacuate the fallen, only to be caught in further explosions as grenades and heavy bolter rounds had eventually gone off in the blaze, dealing scores of other injuries to both the rescue party and the wounded.
It had taken no less than three hours to complete the medevacs. A whole infantry company from 23rd Lindian, despatched as reinforcements, was ambushed on the attack site. A horde of mutants had emerged from the shallow marshes just as they had disembarked from their Chimera APCs. They had savagely thrown themselves, clawing and biting, against the horrified guardsmen, catching them off-guard. Their captain had quickly organised an efficient, if hasty, defence. The mutants had been repelled, but not without inflicting more injuries to the loyalist force.
More than one third of proud Gorgon had been neutralized in that treacherous suicide attack. Deemed combat-ineffective, they were removed from the front lines, and sent to orbit to tend their wounds.

* * *

Origins.
Greyhounds.
Mabyan.

Calixis Sector, 789.M41
Fourth Group, Battlefleet Calixis
Acheron’s Pilgrim, Dauntless-class light cruiser, in orbit around Tranch.
Three days before drop.

So, that was finally it. He had waited a long time for that. He had enlisted as a mere guardsman, his family having none of the connections that could grant their only son a status of officer, nor even as a non-commissioned officer.

Not that it had bothered him, at the time. He had been happy to “climb up the Imperial ladder”, as he kept saying around when in company of his fellow officers. Now the years were starting to show, and he sometimes felt a pinch when he compared himself to the young lieutenants that were assigned to his regiment. So full of life, so eager to despatch the foes of Mankind and spread the Emperor’s light in the darkest coils of the Calixis Sector. His experience more than made up for their naive enthusiasm; his endurance, for their vitality. He was a faithful servant of the God-Emperor, a skilled leader and a ruthless soldier. But he was slowly growing weary of waging those dirty wars.

Three years ago, after a successful campaign in the Scarus sector, Sergeant Holly had been promoted to Lieutenant. Keeping true to his former regiment’s traditions, he then had volunteered for the 17th Baraspinan Regiment, and was selected to join the ranks of their elite unit: the Greyhound Commando Platoon. 17th Baraspinan was spread over the entire Fourth Group of Battlefleet Calixis, as independent assault engineer combat teams. Their specialized skills at engineer warfare were not that often useful in engagements, so they were mostly reduced to guard and reserve duty, much to his – and his men’s – dismay.

All had changed, when the Gorgon Commando Platoon, from 15th Baraspinan, had been crippled in a suicide attack in the Soot Warrens. Disregarding doctrinal differences and regimental rivalries in favour of combat effectiveness and homeworld coherency, battlegroup command had ordered one squad from the Greyhounds being sent to make up for their losses. Colonel Kref, Lord of 17th Baraspinan, had himself chosen Lieutenant Holly’s squad to fill in their ranks. So they had hastily been relocated to the 15th Baraspinan flagship, Acheron’s Pilgrim. The welcome had been cold - some uttered the word “icy”. After three weeks among the Gorgons, they were barely feeling amongst allies, and much less than comfortable. But the wounded had recovered, and the ramshackle platoon was now preparing for their return to Tranch’s surface. The cleansing of a mutant shantytown, dubbed Mabyan, was the objective. Intelligence expected low resistance from the assembled hordes in Mabyan, but there was a high risk of heavy reinforcements from the north-east. Two companies would tackle the main objective; Gorgon was to infiltrate through the marsh north of Mabyan, and prevent any reinforcement from reaching the mutant shelter.

Orders were given, weapons were blessed, prayers to the Emperor were spoken.

Yes, that was finally it.

* * *

Planetfall.
First Blood.
Evacuation.

Calixis Sector, 789.M41
Fourth Group, Battlefleet Calixis
Two kilometres north of Mabyan, Soot Warrens, Tranch.
One hour after drop.

The infiltration was proceeding smoothly. It was a hit-and-run raid on Mabyan, so they had left most of the heavy equipment inside the Valkyrie gunships.
Though he kept his voice low, Big D. was joking over the vox: “Hey, Dizzy, don’t you wish you had left your scorcher home? – Nope, said the heavy flamer specialist, I’d then be hard-pushed to grill the mutant ribs you ordered for lunch!”

There was a good feeling in the air, as Greyhound squad eventually had made planetfall on the dreaded Tranch. Still, the veteran guardsmen knew better than to let their guard down, and were advancing with extreme caution through the murky wood. Their final position was only five hundred meters away.

As they passed a patch of dry soil, they noticed some plasteel and rockrete slabs, reaching out from the depths of the marsh. There had been some buildings up here, now swallowed by the instable mud. As if the world itself was rebelling against the rightful presence of Mankind in that wretched place. Their progression was slowing more and more, as they burrowed through ever-thicker vegetation. They could not see farther than fifty meters ahead, and the suction sounds their boots were making as they struggled to move forward in the slimy soil prevented them from hearing anything else. Though the sun hadn’t shown up yet, the first rays of light were beginning to brighten the cloud-streaked dark sky. They had to hurry, if they wanted to reach their objective before daylight.

“Greyhound from Gorgon 10, we are twenty meters west from our objective, crackled the vox. Support layout is set, prepare to seize and hold your designated compound, fifty meters north. Report in ten minutes.”

Lt. Holly mustered his squad. “Ok, Greyhounds, you heard Gorgon 10? We’re supposed to be on target in less than ten minutes. Dizzy, you take point. Scorch everything that dares to show up. Big D, you provide support for him, no jokes. I’ll be third, the rest following behind. The Greyhounds don’t let the Gorgon down!”

They had had little time to get used to the fighting conditions in the Soot Warrens, hot, wet, and with an acrid scent of a long-burning world. Yet, close-quarter warfare was their specialty, so Holly was confident in his men’s ability to face the “heavy reinforcements” the intelligence officers had warned about. Pushing his men forward, he silently formed a prayer to the Emperor, and steeled himself for the coming fight.

Five minutes later, they reached the outer hedges that surrounded the compound, without any sign that they had been spotted. As Holly was about to give the command for seizing the building, ululating cries and inhuman roars broke out from all round them, denying them the satisfaction of a stealthy insertion. That pit was a set up! Unwilling to waste time thinking, Holly just kept true to his mission: “Greyhounds, run to the compound, now! Move, move!”

Just when he stood from behind his cover, hell unleashed upon them from all directions at once. As he was running towards the shelter of the compound, his trained mind registered the sharp whistling of lasguns, the hard clatter of autoguns, and even the deafening bark of a heavy bolter. “Get in here, quick!, he yelled at his troopers. Search the building for threats, then prepare to defend the site!” He then opened a link to Gorgon 10, calmly stating: “Greyhound, contact.” It was all that he needed to report for now. Not that he had anything else to add, anyway. Ten seconds later, they were rushing inside their makeshift shelter.

Hopefully, the compound had been deserted, and they swiftly got into firing positions. It was actually more of a large, rectangular courtyard, formed by eight-metre tall, one-metre thick walls and a small L-shaped living hab in one corner. The structure hadn’t been abandoned for more than one standard month, yet it looked like it was about to crumble on them.
Lieutenant Holly, once assured his squad was safe inside, took a moment to assess the situation. He hoped the compound would withstand the enemy assault. As for their foes, it was pretty clear they weren’t enemy reinforcements: they had been here all along! He needed to know more about them. “Grind, sitrep!” he asked his most trusted NCO. “All entries are covered, Sir! We have four men on the catwalk overlooking the surrounding wall, watching north, east and south. Three covering the ground doors. Enemy strength is estimated to a five-man team, including a heavy bolter, fifty meters north of our position, and a fifteen-strong group, a hundred meters to our east. We can’t see them for now, the vegetation’s too thick. Sanders took a gunshot in the leg, but the bleeding has been stopped. He can walk.” Holly reported those elements to Gorgon 10, and enquired about the main assault on Mabyan. “Everything is proceeding as planned, Greyhound”, came the reply. Holly could hear gunshots over Lieutenant Esteban’s unshaken voice. Esteban had been Gorgon’s platoon leader for two standard years now. He wasn’t the young, charismatic leader Holly had expected at the head of such a renowned unit. Instead, he had met an almost good-natured guardsman in his mid-thirties, resilient as an oak, but not the talkative kind. He preferred to keep his thoughts to himself, something his men were resenting him for. Losing six of his men in the suicide attack had been a hard blow to Gorgon though, but he had managed to keep the unit afloat. To an outsider like Holly, it seems he had since obtained the full support and respect from his subordinates. Yeah, I still consider myself as an outsider, thought Holly. Actually, both Greyhounds and Gorgons still felt awkward with each other: the former, awed by the Gorgons’ reputation, the latter, still feeling the loss of their third squad, hence being a bit harsh when dealing with the “newcomers”.
His thoughts were lingering on that issue, when the surrounding mutants opened fire at the compound. The Greyhound’s response was an impressive sight to behold, each of them unloading their guns with unmasked hatred. But they were shooting back at shadows and rustling leaves, not seeing any of their foes during the short engagement. Grind reported, “The mutants seem to have come closer, Sir! I do not think we’ve hurt, nor deterred them! I suggest we move to a more favourable position, maybe closer to the Gorgons? – Right, Holly replied, that compound doesn’t seem that great a defensive position. Greyhounds, prepare to mo –” The crack of thunder covered the rest of the Lieutenant’s order. An explosion burst out in the courtyard, hurling rocks, debris, and metal shards alike in deadly shrapnel that engulfed the Greyhounds. Lt. Holly tried to shout his men into taking cover, but the words never left his lips, instead ending in inaudible gargles in his throat. Slowly raising his hand to his neck, he felt the warm flow of blood, dripping down his fingers from a gaping wound under his chin. He felt his legs give in under him, and stumbled backwards before crashing down against the hab wall. The world went blurry around him, and he barely recognized the soldier who rushed to him, already trying to stop the dark blood from leaving his body. His mind barely registered Grind – or was it Vyper? – calling out for an emergency medevac, and his first thought went to his guardsmen. “Are any other wounded?”, he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t voice out his question, nor give further orders. Turning his head, he watched Dizzy swaddle Big D’s bleeding arm with bandages. He seemed to remain in fighting condition; Holly felt relieved. “Stop moving, Sir, said Grind, we need to stop the bleeding!” The pain wasn’t that strong, after all. Or maybe nerves had been cut by the shrapnel? Or were the painkillers quicker to numb his senses? He couldn’t tell for sure. What he was sure of, however, is that he was feeling terribly sleepy. It seemed the effect of adrenaline was wearing off, and suddenly all he wanted was to fall into the clutch of unconsciousness. You’ll give up when you’re dead, you dumbnuts! Those were the words of the drill-abbot back on Baraspine, fifteen years ago. He had shouted them at his men more than any other word, yet they somehow sounded hollow in here, in that moment. He tried to harness his will into standing up, tried to get the medic away from his wound, tried to fight away the dizziness; as if ignoring the wound would somehow erase it. All he managed to do was to accelerate the flow of blood, soaking up the third bandage that was around his neck.

Grind, the ruthless sergeant, was trying to set up a closer defence layout, while organizing the medevac. “Gorgon 10, we won’t be able to hold our position, we need some support to evacuate the lieutenant! We are still engaged with enemy forces, closing in on our position. We need some air support, and request a Valkyrie to get the wounded to safety!” Another two minutes passed before he got a reply from Lt. Esteban : “Greyhound, two Valks are en route to your position, ETA ten minutes. There’s a clearing one hundred metres south-west of your position. We are currently moving to that location, and securing it as a LZ for the medevac. Can you get the Greyhounds in there in ten minutes? – Wilco, Gorgon 10. Grind felt a wave of relief spread inside his head. We’ll make it five.” In good order, the Greyhounds disengaged from the compound, one fire team carrying the unconscious Holly in a makeshift stretcher, the other providing support fire from the mutants at their tail. In less than five minutes, they had reached the outer edge of the clearing. The Valkyries, too, arrived sooner than announced, their machine spirit whining with the stress put on their engines. The surrounding area was still bristling with las shots and tracer rounds, but the pilots showed no hesitation as they made their birds dive towards the smoke-signalled landing zone.

Holly rested a shaking hand on Grind’s arm. He knew his guys were safe now, they had linked with the other friendly forces, and had managed to get out of that deathtrap. Feeling at peace with himself, he gazed into his trusted sergeant with exhausted eyes, seeing him as the leader he was. He would take care of the Greyhounds, would lead them into mighty victories against His enemies. He no longer had the strength to fight, and he felt better as his mind collapsed, down into the warm embrace of eternal slumber.

* * *

A Coffin.
Spilled Blood.
Gorgons.

Calixis Sector, 789.M41
Fourth Group, Battlefleet Calixis
Acheron’s Pilgrim, Dauntless-class light cruiser, in orbit around Tranch.
Sixteen hours after drop.

In the silent launch bay of the Acheron’s Pilgrim, the three squads forming the Gorgon were gathered around a single, plasteel coffin. Only a trained eye could notice that the Greyhounds were one step ahead of the rest of the platoon.

Lieutenant Esteban, proud in his ceremonial attire, was facing his men.

“Today, a hard battle was won. Though we had not been blessed with leading the main assault, we assuredly were tasked with the most dangerous mission. It is now confirmed that the enemy forces knew of the operation, which explains why we took the brunt of the enemy attack. But we didn’t waver, and you, Lieutenant Holly, didn’t falter either. We held our position against a mutant tide, ten times as numerous as Gorgons and Greyhounds altogether, and we allowed our main elements to carry out their mission unscathed.

Lieutenant Holly, you lead your men into the jaws of the mutants; fearless, unflinching, relentless. The Imperium has a great need of soldiers like you, and though our mission was a success, your loss is a great blow to the Gorgons, to the Calixis Sector, and to the Emperor. You had shown the unwavering will of a warrior, the cunning of a great tactician, and the heart of a great leader.

Lieutenant Grind, you are now in charge of the squad. From now, Greyhound squad will be addressed as Gorgon 30. You are Gorgons, brothers. Not by the blood received. But by the blood spilled.”