Anselm will attempt to manipulate the fuel-line access panel to try and at least save the men from a horrible disaster waiting to happen "As if greenskins wasn't not enough!"
With the shuttle's nose and landing gear partially buried in the earth, Guardsman Tartare must crawl underneath the craft to find the access. Dolf also realizes the gravity of the situation and dives in after his comrade. The pair quickly finds the correct panel, popping it open to reveal an intimidating array of switches, breakers, and dials.
Dolf gives a low whistle and exclaims, "Porca l'oca!"
The Ork squad to the north moves eastward, interspersing the dilapidated buildings between them and the guardsmen and thus are no longer in direct line of sight. Scope notes a single Ork that runs, grabs the discarded missile device, and attempts to follows the others but remains visible. The wounded Ork simply stands up and trots east behind a structure.
From the northeast, two Orks and four Gretchin charge towards the shuttle as fast as they can.
" Sarge, I will take care of the small ones if you can get that launcher our of commission." I point up the the burning engine. " That cant take an other hit."
Ears still ringing from the massive explosion that just wiped out most of the guardsmen debarking behind him, Sgt. Mire staggers forward, the magnoculars still clutched tightly in both hands, but forgotten, wondering numbly if poor Captain Castiglione ever knew what hit him---probably not, the man was a hard drinker, the vice of choice for many men who had survived Oremor. Some part of Mire was earnestly hoping that the poor captain was still in the half-fog of his latest hangover when the end came.
As the Sarge looks down at the smoking holes in his uniform, one still pierced with a red-hot piece of shrapnel hanging by a smoldering thread, he comes to his senses again, hearing Dol shouting from somewhere far away. He turns and flinches, finding that the burly gunner is far closer than he surmised, leaning in toward him and practically yelling in his ear. He looks concerned. Concerned for him. This brings the sergeant back to himself like a slap to the face, all evidence of his disorientation dissipating like stormclouds blown away by a fierce, unfriendly, wind.
The words that Dol is saying finally register, punctuated by the hiss-crack of the las-carbines firing, interspersed with the staccato dak-dak-dak of the ork weapons.
A quick glance around him brings the tactical situation into focus quickly, and he points toward the westernmost furrow.
"Dol! Get your stubber set up on the edge of that ditch and end those greenskins moving on our flank!"
Looking behind him he sees Lark, smirking impishly at him even in the fury of the battle raging around them.
"Hathin, Book, you're with me, double-time it, we need to get that bastard with the rokkit before he uncorks another!"
Not waiting for an answer largely because he doesn't want to hear the sporchi question his order, he unslings his carbine and runs for the edge of the eastern furrow, near the van of 'F' Company. Dropping to one knee he settles the short stock into the crook of his arm and takes aim at the loping greenskin, squeezing off a single shot.
Sgt. Mire curses as the shot goes wide, the loose, muddy dirt from the furrow slipping out from under his braced knee.
Sarge's las-round kicks up dirt well behind the retreating Ork with the lancher. The xeno is at long range for the las-carbine, some 150 meters away. Guardsman Murjoff also misses, saying, "Sorry Sarge. It'd take some shot to get that green bastard."
Hathin gives Sarge a nod before turning to Book and gesturing with his head in a off we go this way motion. Trusting entirely to the inaccuracy of the orks and his own swift perambulation Hathin does not bother crouching as he jogs forward.
Book follows after a little more cautiously and taking more cover than his intransigent comrade in arms.
Vex takes a ill-aimed shot at the nearest target
He takes cover.
"Dolf common, I need you to move them were I just told you too!" as Anselm keeps working and probably not remembering if he told him actually were or even if he did it at all "I hate this open ground fighting" and every time he takes a peek just to see how things are going they just don't seem to be getting any better.
"Gerr you heard the Sarge, we'er to take out these over here. You take from left to right while I go from right to left. Well meet in the middle and see who has taken the most down."
I brace my stubber off of my hip and start shooting.
What the drannit the stowage must have messed with the trigger. Seeing that the bullets start firing well before I was expecting.
I drop down to a knee and start fiddling with trigger.
The explosion lifts Edwin bodily into the air and deposits him back on the ground with a sickening crunch. Rolling with the impact, he comes up in a low crouch, desperately trying to blink his vision back into focus as his whole body cries out in pain. As his sight clears, he searches for the source of the crude projectile and focuses in on a lone ork in the distance, desperately running for cover.
Edwin calmly shoulders his hellgun, lines up the target, and squeezes the trigger.
Edwin smirks with satisfaction as the shot slags a chunk of meet off the ugly brute's left calf.
"Dolf common, I need you to move them were I just told you too!" as Anselm keeps working and probably not remembering if he told him actually were or even if he did it at all "I hate this open ground fighting" and every time he takes a peek just to see how things are going they just don't seem to be getting any better.
Dolf wrinkles his brow and looks over at the Operator, "Throne, Anselm! We had just polished off our second bottle of rot-gut when those Navy-Techs gave us that shuttle-tour. I don't remember any of that!"
I drop down to a knee and start fiddling with trigger.
As the heavy gunner adjusts the trigger, Gerr detaches the magazine and slams it back into the stubber. "Just keep shootin', Dol! You're clear!"
Edwin smirks with satisfaction as the shot slags a chunk of meet off the ugly brute's left calf.
The Storm-Trooper's hellgun, a las-rifle enhanced to penetrate heavy infantry armor, punches through the calf and additionally sears and immolates the leg. The Ork pirouettes slowly as if unaware to what is happening. As the xeno's brain finally registers that it is on fire, it crashes in an agonizing heap and dies. The rocket launcher now lies harmless in the grass.
By the time the sarge prepares to fire again at the ork with the rocket launcher, his target is already slumped on the ground, its leg a blazing pyre, now very much separate from the rest of the burly xenos' body.
Glancing behind him, he sees the stormtrooper already sighting down the barrel of his weapon again.
With a grim nod that is equal parts respect and encouragement, he points first toward Edwin and then toward the runtherders and their scampering charges closing in quickly from the northwest.
Seeing that my target is neuralized for the moment, and unfortunately the Rokkit Launcha was grabbed and that target is out of sight. I default to secondary objectives. Command and Control. Lets see how good the Green Skins morale is.
"Dot light me up a Runtherd."
I adjust my sites pacing the stride of the Ork. Leading two pips over for run speed and windage as Dot rattles off adjustments like a well oiled machine. I squeeze the trigger.
"Adjust three left, one down." breathes Dot in a whisper.
The marksman's slug catches the Gretchin-Handler square in the chest. Other than a brief flinch the beast display no ill effect and continues to drive the other Orkoids forward with growls and a grot-prod.
I will aim for a turn. Tell me what my best target will be.
From the shallow trench, a kneeling Doc sizes up the Ork mob charging from the northeast. He takes his time and draws a steady bead on the nearest Runtherd.
To the northwest the Runtherds continue to drive their Gretchin headlong toward the shuttle. The rightward group is partially hidden behind a large scrub-brush.
Some 150 meters to the north, squad members see an Ork run towards the fallen Greenskin and pick a weapon up from the grass. The array of buildings to the northeast blocks any view of the other Shoota Boyz spotted earlier.
Sgt. Mire turns to bark another order at Hathin, but realizes too late that the weapons specialist has already begun running across the broken terrain of the furrow toward the ruined buildings.
Wary that no one has noticed any further movement from the orks that now lurk among the buildings, he scans their ruined facades for any sign of movement.
.
Waving Murjoff to follow him, confident that the rest of the squad can handle the runtherd advance to the west, he yells over the crackle of las-fire to his adjutant.
"Murjoff! Get on the horn and see if you can raise the Brontians, try to get a handle on our tactical position in this mess!"
Spying another greenskin attempting to pick up the launcher, Sgt. Mire advances a few meters further down the trench and then takes aim, firing upon the ork.
Sarge surveys the situation from the trench as Murjoff toggles the vox and attempts to dial reception. Behind him he notes there is still fire blocking the exit ramp at the rear of the shuttle. Turning to the buildings some 30 meters from their position, Mire scans for the enemy.
Undoubtedly the Orks are moving through the ruins towards their position. It is only a matter of time before they come under fire.
To the left of the buildings the non-com spots an Ork sprinting from cover towards the fallen Greenskin with the missile weapon. Sarge brings his weapon to bear and squeezes off a shot.
Eradico
Sgt. Mire grins in satisfaction when the hurried shot hits, looking back on the still burning shuttle he muses, some days it is better to be lucky than good...
The sergeant's smile disappears as he sees the Ork continue to search the grass near its fallen comrade. Sarge then creeps forward a few more steps.
"Ok lets see if that fixed it. Gerr lets try that again."
The heavy gunner's stubber belches forth rounds with a steady, "Rat-a-tat-tat!" Slugs stitch the earth near the charging Orks and Gretchin but find no purchase.
Once Dol lets his finger off the trigger, Gerr says, "Throne alive, Dol. Will you quit wasting perfectly good ammo?"
Hathin starts humming to himself as he continues to put his legs to use.
Commissar Vex overlooks the guardsmen as they spray fire towards the enemy Orks. "Keep it up, men! The Emperor is with us! By faith and fury we will wipe out these vermin!"
He then raises his bolt-pistol and takes aim at the Runtherd horde.
The soldiers nearby watch with some incredulity as the Commissar casually pauses to deliver a successful strike against the oncoming force.
Hathin starts humming to himself as he continues to put his legs to use.
The weapons specialist sprints north along the furrow left by the shuttle. To his right are heaps of rubble and long-neglected, crumbling buildings.
Switching targets, Edwin lines up one of the approaching Runtherds in his sights.
Switching targets, Edwin lines up one of the approaching Runtherds in his sights.
The Storm Trooper lets loose with his modified heavy laser but the beam scorches the earth and misses its mark.
Hathin starts humming to himself as he continues to put his legs to use.
Lark continues to plunge ahead, running low along the swathe left by the shuttle. He notices Book glancing nervously back as they leave the squad further behind. Book maintains pace with weapons specialist, muttering, "The Emperor protects, the Emperor protects."
Skrynne Southern Hemisphere
Near Supply Depot 31
45.818.M41
The Guardsmen of Squad Mire continue to pepper shots at the oncoming Orks. To their rear they hear shouts and see flame-retarding foam emit from the jagged hatchway. To the north the entrenched Brontian Longknives continue to try and stem the tide of Orks storming their fortifications.
The two Runtherds and their attendant Gretchin continue their charge from the northwest. Some 150 meters north a lone Ork fumbles through the grass, presumably to find an Ork rocket launcher. The position of Shoota Boyz to the northeast is unknown as the buildings and ruins hide any potential approach.
Over the noise of shouts and weapons-fire, Vox-Operator Murjoff shouts into the transmitter and dial in the appropriate frequency.
Beneath the shuttle Anselm and his buddy Dolf try to sort out the proper rites required to empty the burning engine before it explodes and takes half the shuttle with it.
Dolf asks, "That toggle there, Anselm. What does it do? It'll turn off the turbine, right? But I'm damned if I know how to cut circuit voltage without disabling the fuel bypass system."
I follow as the Runtherd misses a step from my impact. Still running damn. Where is there weak spot???
Again leading my scope 2 dots over I squeeze the trigger.
Through his telescopic site, the sniper sees his shot punch into the torso of the xeno. It immediately drops to the ground while emitting a bellowing roar.
Doc Zane steadies his lasrifle and tracks the other Runtherd in his gun-site. Next to the medic, Guardsman Zees also lines up to fire at the xeno.
Anselm tries the best he can to save as many as he can "Just do as I tell you, don't be getting all I want to take the initiative on me!
Anselm tries the best he can to save as many as he can "Just do as I tell you, don't be getting all I want to take the initiative on me!
Dolf, dumbfounded by the array of dials and switches, replies, "All right, all right, Anselm. Give it a go but don't say I didn't try to warn you when this whole ship goes up like an Imperial Candle on Emperor's Day!"
The sounds of battle echo all across the area of the landing field. Behind them the Guardsmen hear the flaming roar of the burning jet engine. To the northwest the Imperial installation remains besieged. Explosions, either from grenades or missiles, rock the walls and gate. Las and stubber fire emit from the installation as well as emplacements such as bunkers and pillboxes surrounding the depot.
150 meters north of the Imperial Shuttle a lone Ork retrieves something from the grass and fiddles with it.
There is still no sign of the Ork squad that disappeared earlier behind the buildings to the northeast.
To the northwest, Scope sees through his telescopic site that the Runtherd he downed seconds earlier staggers to his feet and stumbles forward. Even at this distance through the tumult of battle, Scope hears the xeno emit the trademark "Waaaaauugh!" battle cry. The scream pushes the Runtherd's Gretchin further. The other Runtherd and Gretchin race forward as well.
Murjoff removes the receiver from his ear and glances up at his NCO. "Hey boss, I got one of the Brontians on the horn. Not getting much out of him and he sounds kinda panicky. You wanna talk to 'em?"
"Damn"
Without taking my eye off the target.
"Dot you see a chink in them yet? Tired of wasting bullets."