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The speeder bucked and rocked as it avoided the tree tops. Surprised, Sargent Beausoleil gripped the hand hold and leaned out the port side to observe the leafy canopy whipping by. He rested his powerfist on the hull of the speeder. He looked back into the crew compartment at his squad: nine aspirant Astartes, the five most junior of which were armed with long sniper rifles.
The rest only carried pistols and brutal looking knives, save for Brother Asche, who was sitting with his leg out the side of the speeder door, looking into the action of his blocky shotgun. Brother Lem handed out the four satchels, each with two bulky melta-bomb apiece.
“Trail behind and cover our progress,” as Beausoleil gave his snipers their orders, he gestured with his powerfist. He leaned away from the lopsided weight as he laid out his plan. “I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us and spoiling us. You five will hold position at the rendezvous point, to cover our escape.”
“Understood, Sargent,” nodded brother Joct.
He looked back into the jungle. The ends of his scarlet scarf fluttered in the breeze.
“Dropzone two minutes out, brothers,” the pilot, Ota, said into the flight mic. His voice sounded close in the scouts’ ear pieces.
The co-pilot turned around in his seat. “Sargent?”
Beausoleil looked up and grunted, “Yes, Marcus.” The comm-system clicked as their channel went private.
“Sargent, I hope you’re not forgetting this,” he said as he fastened a long stiletto to the Sargent’s belt. “I took it from the battlefield, you know the rules; I need you to take it back.”
“Marcus, really? That old superstition?” the Sargent chided, as he buckled his knees to roll with the speeder’s jostling.
“That old tradition. And just take it, you old brute,” Marcus swung back around to his instruments and the glossy, black heavy bolter that hung limply.
“Dropzone incoming,” Ota breathed into the mic. “Get into the wind, brothers.”
*
The scouts slipped through the dense foliage with ease, silently and quickly. Each footfall was unerring. Each of them kept one hand on the hilt of their knives. Their path was parallel to the hard-packed dirt road, just a few feet away.
“Sargent,” Joct’s voice crackled over the comms. “Five sentries approaching your position. Lightly armed”
“Fire on targets when we can close the distance.”
Beausoleil held up his fist and brought it slowly down. The scouts lowered with the motion and stealthily drew out their knives. They heard the sentries trampling noisily amongst the brush and undergrowth, easy prey for Beausoleil’s men and their hungry knives. They watched the bagheaded guardsmen walk within feet of their position. Beausoleil spied the ruined Aquila on their flak jackets and narrowed his eyes in a seething rage.
“Fire on targets.”
Sniper rounds pelted into three of the sentries. One stumbled onto his knees gasping, while two of his companions fell heavily onto their faces with blood streaming from their chests.
The fledgling Astartes burst from the shade to dispatch the rest of the patrol. Two long knives opened bellies. Purple viscera poured into the brush, painting leaves black and slick. Brother Asche, lacking a blade, stomped the neck of crumpled and coughing guardsman, nearly decapitating him. In a burst of violence, the deep was done. It had happened so quickly that the Sargent didn’t have time to bring his powerfist to bear.
Beausoleil spit on the blasphemous symbols carved into the dead cultists’ flesh, and instructed Sikes and Asche to conceal the bodies just off the road. Those two had been inducted into the Cloud Giants at the same time as he had, but they were progressing slowly compared with him. Not that they were dim-witted nor unskilled, they would in time make fine Astartes, but Beausoleil’s mastery of battlefield tactics as well as progress in martial prowess was meteoric. He devoured each text set before him with relish. He was the only foundling in one hundred years to be promoted to Sergeant within his own scout squad. Passionate and possessed of a brilliant tacticians mind, Beausoleil could only rise to greatness. The masters of the chapter watch him closely, though if he knew it, Beausoleil didn’t show it.
*
With the defenders removed, the armoury was easily infiltrated. Thought, to call it an armoury was a generosity far beyond what Beausoleil felt in his hearts for the traitors. In reality, it was a re-purposed livestock farm, cattle now replaced with chattel, farm tools replaced with scavenged armour and weapons. An enormous old barn, constructed from roughly hewn timber housed most of the armour and artillery. Beausoleil’s mission was to disrupt and destroy as much of the traitor’s operation at Farm 10 as possible and to return to the Cloud Giants strike-force HQ with any pertinent intel. While most information was expected to be troop strength, Beausoleil’s commanders wanted bitterly any clues as to who was orchestrating the resistance on Wait's World. The farm itself was located in a clearing in the heavily logged equatorial jungles of the planet.
The armour in the barn had stolen or recovered Planetary Defence Force equipment. A large percentage was seized during a raid on a PDF storage site and munitions dump Lamda. Mothballed tanks had been hastily loaded and then turned on bewildered soldiers. It was that very raid that predicated the involvement of the Cloud Giants. Then, a small rebellion had been revealed to be the bud that bloomed into a full blown uprising, though no clear leader had emerged as of yet. While shoddy, the rows of variants of Leman Russ battle tanks and Chimera transports were serviceable and more dangerously, well stocked with ammunition. Thusly, the Cloud Giants had been tasked with finding and destroying the rebels’ motor pool.
The thought of destroying all those weapons weighed on Beausoleil’s heart heavily. So many big guns that would never be aimed at the heart of the Emperor’s enemies, it seemed a waste. Though, no advantage could stay in the hands of traitors.
Beausoleil’s HUD displayed the list of vehicles known to have been captured in the Lamda raid. Over half were missing from the barn. With a thought, a list of sighted vehicles cross referenced those in the armoury; still ten Leman Russ’ and one heavily damaged Stormlord were unaccounted for. Clearly this rebellion was being organized better than the lacklustre sentries suggested, no backwater demagogue would have thought of decentralizing munitions. Regardless, the mission parameters was clear; disrupt as much of the motor pool as possible. His squad fanned out, affixing melta-bombs to turret-joints and tank-tracks, taking note of the vehicle ids as they went.
“Sergeant, take a look at this,” scout Sikes whispered into the comms.
The sight filled Beausoleil with glee bordering on childlike. Before the scout squad in the grey light of the barn was an ancient and oddly styled Predator covered in leaves and vines. Its paint had long been worn through from exposure and no livery remained, but the venerable tank looked solid as the day it was forged in an age gone by.
“Brothers, this one we rescue,” Beausoleil said as he ran his hands over the rough metal. “The rest of you, finish setting the charges, Asche and I will make this ready for our flight.” The two set about clearing detritus from the machine as quiet as possible.
“Sir, this is a traitor’s weapon, is this not blasphemy?” Asche asked as he pulled vines from the turret and hatches.
The Sergeant stood, “No, I think this was recently discovered. We are taking back Astarte war-machine. This is a gift from Him.”
“Sir, we could incur His wrath if you’re wrong.”
Beausoleil smiled and placed a hand on Asche’s shoulders and said “If I am correct, brother, and I know I am, we will become that wrath.”
Satchels empty, Timmin, Riel, and Sikes regrouped with duo and crouched between the Predator and a dilapidated Chimera. Beausoleil gave the amended orders from the top hatch of the tank; he would set off the metla-bombs remotely once the squad cleared the site. Riel, Sikes and Timmin were to rendezvous with Land Speeder Storm at the extraction point and then use the speeder’s direct link to HQ to request a Thunderhawk extraction for the Predator. Asche --already in the gunner’s seat-- and the Squad Sergeant would drive the tank out on one of the logging roads in the chaos of the armoury explosion. All orders were understood.
Riel began to speak but his chest exploded in a blossom of blood and ruined armour. The scouts grabbed the wounded scout’s body and scrambled for cover between the tanks, returning fire as they went.
At the end of barnhouse, six power armoured forms stood, bolters at the ready. Beausoleil didn’t recognize the armour, pure white with starkly contrasting black trim and spines. His HUD stored the image for later inspection. The bolter shells pinged off the armoured hulls the scouts hid amongst. Then silence. Heavy foot falls approached. Two sets.
Charge or be charged, Beausoleil thought. He bellowed and rushed into the two approaching warriors, and Timmin and Sikes followed him with knives bared and pistols firing. Beausoleil was surprised by the agility of his opponent considering his massive bulk. The Sargent managed to dodge one a swipe from a cruel looking bladed hook, but the second found purchase on the edge of his powerfist. The traitor pulled him in and gripped his throat with one hand, lifting and choking him. Beausoleil gurgled and gasped, and dropped his bolt pistol into the dirt. He yanked the stiletto from his belt. He felt pressure in his eyeballs. He jammed the long blade into the soft armour of the warrior’s elbow and ratcheted it up and down with all his might. His attacker made an enraged grunt -- annoyance more than pain -- as the grip on Beausoleil’s neck weakened enough for him to kick free.
He landed in the dirt at the traitor’s feet and was promptly stomped on by a heavy boot and pinned. He looked up into the barrel of a twisted, ancient boltgun. Then everything was loud and bright like the world was ripped in two.
The power armoured figure was exploded from the middle of the chest up and crumpled into a bleeding mass of tangled gore. The Predator’s auto-cannon barrel was smoking. It turned to track the dark Astartes guarding against their escape.
With that, Beausoleil clambered onto and into the machine. As he descended into the hatch, he spied Sikes and Timmin through the lines of tanks; Timmin was missing an arm from the elbow down and limped badly. The bolters opened fired again.
“What took you, Asche?” croaked Beausoleil.
“This old systems are sleepy. The boot-up slowly,” Asche offered. “At least they are accurate.”
The Sargent snorted a crude laugh. He cooed litanies of benediction to the machine spirit as he eased himself into the pilot’s seat. More a work of art than a war-machine. Beausoleil pulled the drive controls, the engines belched and the tank responded instantly. The tank swerved into firing position as bolter fire pattered harmlessly off the hull. The Chaos warriors disgusted the Sargent, they were a suggestion that purity was taintable. Their existence was unacceptable.
“Targets acquired, sir.”
“Fire on targets.”
"Firing."
The sponson heavy-bolters pounded out round after round as the turret autocannon spit shells at the traitor marines. One instantly disappeared into a red-brown spray just as his companion was violently punched to the ground, his botler spinning away from him. The downed traitor kicked himself away from the line of fire. Exceptionally resolute though ineffectual, the traitor astartes continued to fire at the tank.
“We’re covering your escape, make good on it, brothers,” Sikes calmly said into the comlink.
“Acknowledged,” one of them replied.
Beausoleil inched the tank forward as Sikes continued to pour fire unto the enemy before them. This is how battle should be, thought Beausoleil. Their foes took cover on either side of the barn doors and with a clear avenue of escape, the engine surged ahead. Past tank after tank, the Predator careered toward the exit. Some of the sabotaged tanks started, rumbling to readiness, their crews having entered the building in the confusion of the fire fight. Some turrets moved to lock on to the speeding tank. Noticing this, Beausoleil triggered the metla-bombs.
The vision slits in the armour of the tank were alight with explosive brightness. The barn was blown to sticks and tinder. Molten thermite streamed straight through inches thick armour. From the conflagration, the scout driven tank streaked. All the vegetation affixed to it before was now aflame. They were now His burning sword. Sikes punched autocannon rounds into a sentry tower while the tank's machine spirit pulled the sponson weapons towards traitor guardsmen in the courtyard. From an assailed tower streaked a missile, its smoke trail straight and ghostly.
The tank pitched and bounced on its tracks. Flames and smoke licked the interior.
“Mobility stable! Weapon status!?” yelled the Sargent coarsely.
“Autocannon disabled. All other systems stable,” Asche replied over the chatter of the heavy bolters steaming fire into the sentry tower. “I have lost any eye to shrapnel, Sargent.”
The tank crashed through the main gates. The courtyard was in shambles –the explosion and the blitz of heavy weapons fire had disrupted operations enough for them to speed away.
“And what do we say about eyes?” asked Beausoleil.
“The Emperor gave each of us two.” Asche grumbled to himself.
The tank kicked up dust and grit as it drove. Behind them, no small amount of munitions boomed and massive stores of rounds cooked off nosily, adding to the mayhem. Screams and shouts filled the air and timbers cracked with flames. Beausoleil smiled a wry grin as he pictured the look on Marcus's face when he saw this.
Timmin squawked in over the commlink, “Sir, we are out. Riel is wounded badly and gone into shock-stasis. Our snipers have pinned down the pursuers. Extraction is en route. Over and out.”

I like this, though certain names I don't like. The chapter name and wait's world sound, well gak tbh. You strike me as a bright lad. Certain names seem perposely chosen, so don't need me to tell you why I don't like the name Crawly, (666).

Will there be more from this scout sargent?

There's no one called Crawly...

I do think the chapter name could use changing but looking at your P&M blog you seem to have a background and everything thought out...
Maybe just change them to something with a similar implication. Big strong but also aloof and commanding?
Eternity Wardens? Wardens of Eternity?

As for the writing, the entire thing is pretty fast paced which I think detracts from the stealth portions. It does help the firefight and subsequent escape, that feels frantic.

Maybe have another part to the stealth section where half of them are clearing out a command bunker and the other half are just destroying the vehicles.
You could use that as a good intro bit for the predator as well.

Storyboard (Kinda):
Starts off-
The squad approach the target managing to kill or slip past the sentries before splitting up. Alpha section moves towards the command den while beta section starts off to the armoury. Alpha begin to clear the bunker and end up discovering evidence, locations, codes etc so they swipe that and begin to move back up to the surface.
Meanwhile-
Beta is planting charges and instead of describing the predator there one of the scouts stops the other from planting the melta charge and just says 'Not this one brother, this one we save'.
Then it goes to-
Alpha section emerge from the command bunker and are spotted. They get pinned down and the Legionnaires begin to move in. Just as all seems lost the armoury/barn goes up in flames and the predator comes roaring through the wall guns blazing and wreathed in fire. The scouts manage to escape with the info they need and having caused a good amount of havoc.


Basically the stealth bit needs to be longer to feel slower. Maybe have a close call or something. The combat writing is good, feels fast and not too confused.

My mistake, it says crowly instead (I get mixed up sometimes). But still..Please change the names, they are truely cringe worthy. Be prepared for this if chapter name persists.

Harrius, Corcran and Billiards are the only bad ones.
Corcran is bad because... well I don't know about other but when I read a name I am unsure of how to pronounce or sounds/looks weird to me I can't stand it...
Harrius just looks like Harris with a space you added.
Billiards... well that's a pub game...

"Cringe worthy." Nice to see the editors around here don't mince words.
Yeah, the chapter name isn't going anywhere. I think it's fine in a universe where there are Space Sharks, Space Wolves, Wolfbrothers, Star Phantoms, Star Scorpions, Star Leopards, and Star Dragons. Not to mention a host of less than heavenly Angels.
As for the scout names and the pacing, I agree. I'll rework it tonight likely. Though Corcran would be pronounced Cork-Ran.
I'll beef up the stealth sections and prolong the end battle and see where that takes us.
Thanks for the critique.

I don't mince my words unless you ask really sweetly, with a cherry on top.

Fresh out of cherries, I fear.

So the story has been expanded and edited. Some names have been changed.
I did use purplefood's idea of splitting the team into A and B squads, but not the way he suggested. And I also wanted to add a little more action to the piece.
How'd it fare?

I like it. I'd re-read it once or twice to make sure spelling and grammar is correct.

That's what I get for doing edits at midnight. I'll fix it in the morning.