After Vex and the Sarge have moved out of easy earshot Book learns as close as he can get while staying in his harness and gives Lark a section of the riot act "What the frak do you think you're up to Lark? That ones a fraggin Commissar..."
Lark leans back easy in his seat and yells back dismissively "Feh, looks a bit soft to me Book. Fecker didn't even push back"
Book lathers saliva frothing at the mouth "Oca! Lark, you really do have sh1t for brains... probably the only reason he didn't put a bolter round through your thick skull is he didn't want to breach the hull. Sarge ain't going to shed a tear on your headless corpse if you try that planetside."
Hathin's face turns a shade of rage as he begins to grind his teeth and come up with a retort... but he knows Book's not lying. Instead he growls and spits on the floor... before giving amateur lip-readers a brutal lesson in the vagaries of sporchi slang and cussing.
Anselm eyeball Dolf "Just like on Malfi!" as he begins to answer in words best swallowed by the white noise of the shuttle while only making Dolf laugh as if I had made the funniest joke ever "Sometimes I just want to kick you in the balls... damn funny stronzo"
Looking towards the soldier that caught the attention of the Commissar "If he has problems with the Commissar that makes two of us, but I wonder what's with him?"
I break a smile at Dot's punch. Reminding me that I'm not alone. It doesn't matter what the rest of the squad does. We will survive. Just hope the new brass doesn't get anyone killed. We have a high enough attrition rate as it is.
The squad-mates settle into their crash-seats for the home stretch of the flight. Any attempt to cat-nap is thwarted by increased jarring and what feels like severe drops in altitude. Guardsmen look at each other wondering if a novice pilot, atmospheric turbulence, or enemy fire is to blame. The engine noise changes pitch and emits a screeching wail. After a few more bumps and shudders, a klaxon sounds and wall beacons come aglow with rotating beams of light.
Overhead, loudspeakers crackle and emit static. A voice mumbles something almost indistinguishable over the engine noise and speaker fuzz.
Awareness 33 - 10 = 23
I know I can spot an Oremorian field mouse moving over a mile away. Yet I can't hear what's on the loud speaker right in front of me. Eats me up inside how much that disease took away from me.
Awareness (TN 26):
Leaning back in his harness with eyes closed Lark hears naught but the roar of the engines.
Sgt. Mire strains to hear what is said over the increasing din, a knot of apprehension forming in the pit of his stomach when he can't quite make it out.
<<SSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKTTTTTTT>>
Somehow you make out the distorted, amplified voice through the morass of noise:
<<WARNING **SSSHHHKKKKHT** REPEAT HOT LZ *SSHHKKKT* SPACEPORT UNDER ATTACK BY ORK FORCES *SSSSHHHHHKKKKTTTTT*>>
<<SSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKTTTTTTT>>
Somehow you make out a distorted, amplified voice through the morass of noise:
<<WARNING. HOT LZ *SHHKTT* REPEAT HOT LZ. DEPOT SPACEPORT UNDER ATTACK BY ORK FORCES *BZZZSHH* ETA TEN MINUTES.>>
"We have a hot LZ, be ready for a fight with orks!"
Yelling to be heard over the growing noise,
Reverie broken by the muffled voice of the Sarge or the resulting commotion, Lark slowly and methodically checks his gear. The knife at his side is drawn and edge tested against his arm leaving a thin line of crimson behind as it goes back into it's sheath. His attention then goes to his plasma and loving hands trace the lines of the weapon. Ammo counter is double checked and the power setting is left at nominal capacity... for now.
At the behest of their sergeant, the guardsmen check weapons and rack slides from the safety of their crash-seats. The exception is the burly Dol, whose heavy-stubber is disassembled for ease of transport. With alacrity he unstraps, grabs the barrel from under his seat and fits it to the main gun assembly. Then just as quickly Dol grabs a magazine out of his rucksack and rams it home. After strapping back in, the heavy-stubber now rests butt-end on the floor with the gunner holding the barrel.
I smack Dolf in the arm and get in close "Orks! Get ready" as I then smack the next guy to get his attention and pass the message.
Turning to Murjoff, the sergeant yells for him to turn slightly in his crash-seat, checking to see if his vox-caster is picking up any further intelligence about what might be occurring at the LZ, either through intercepted shuttle transmissions or messages from the ground.
Book lovingly wraps his primer in a cloth and gives it a kiss before stowing it in his rucksack.
Lark sits like a coiled spring in his seat, ready and eager to get dropped into the center of a steamy LZ.
Shuttle Spina continues its shrieking descent. Moments of intense shuddering and harsh deceleration are interspersed with sensations of complete free-fall. Alternately the guardsmen are crushed into cushioned seats or pressed forward into safety straps while the engines strain and howl.
I smack Dolf in the arm and get in close "Orks! Get ready" as I then smack the next guy to get his attention and pass the message.
Thanks to the sharp-eared doctor, Anselm watches as the ready word is passed down the line. He recoils when his comrade gives him a return sucker-punch. The operator looks over and Dolf grins like a wolf yelling, "Greenskins! Let's give 'em hell!"
Turning to Murjoff, the sergeant yells for him to turn slightly in his crash-seat, checking to see if his vox-caster is picking up any further intelligence about what might be occurring at the LZ, either through intercepted shuttle transmissions or messages from the ground.
The Sarge watches as his aide wrestles with the vox-set. The scrawny guardsman is tossed about his seat while adjusting the gain and amplitude settings. Despite pressing the receiver as tight as possible to his ear he shakes his head after a moment and yells, "Nothing chief! Just static!"
Book lovingly wraps his primer in a cloth and gives it a kiss before stowing it in his rucksack.
Lark sits like a coiled spring in his seat, ready and eager to get dropped into the center of a steamy LZ.
The weapons specialist relishes the prospect of battle with murderous delight. His meditation is interrupted as he hears his pious side-kick Book shout, "Don't forget the litany: 'I WILL DESTROY ALL WHO SEEK TO DESTROY ME!'"
Anselm looks at his weapons and gives them a last minute check "Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. I can't believe that's actually in our damned tacman."
Into the Fray
Skrynne System, Imperial Troop Shuttle Spina
45.818.M41
A lifetime passes, some ten more minutes, and the shuttle finally touches down with a violent lurch. Each guardsman is virtually punched in the shoulders and stomach as their restraints keep them from catapulting out of their seats. Beneath their feet they feel scraping as the craft attempts to find purchase. Unsecured gear from racks and overhead bins clatters about, showering the men with equipment and ordnance. The quaking ship somehow maintains integrity and finally grinds to a halt.
Half a second later klaxons sound and the compartment lights turn from red to white. As one the company unharnesses amid shouts and admonishments, exiting each row to the left or right. Behind Squad Mire, seated in the rearmost row, a green light illuminates the troop-hatch indicating that it may be unlocked and opened.
I shoulder the stubber and get prepared to give covering fire.
I tap Dot on the shoulder. Load our guns, and check are sights. We already have our gear in hand. Will need to redeploy quick and set up a killing field so the others can will have the breathing room to set up a proper defensive line. In the mean time we need to scrounge any grenades, claymores and the like to give us the edge we will need. If the Orks get close to us we will be dead.
Hathin keeps his plasma on his hip as he stands and stretchs, readying himself to follow the troop out when ordered and the way is clear.
Picking up his las and with a smile of finally touching ground, he just can't help to be happy to get out of there even if he knows he goes to fight something much worse outside..."I guess it's stupid feeling but I can't help it"
As the guardsmen of F company begin to file out of the cramped rows of seating, Sgt. Mire proceeds to his squad's designated troop-hatch exuding an almost preternatural calm amid the chaos of the landing.
Stonily resolute, he stands to one side of the door, slinging his carbine barrel upright on its strap to point to the means of egress.
Barking loudly to be heard over the din, he yells to get the squad's undivided attention.
"Form up everyone!"
Looking over the squad once they assemble, he shouts some more orders, praying that everyone can hear him, knowing that their collective lives may depend on it.
"Scope, Dot; take the lead. Break out fast and get a lay of the land and a high vantage if you can. The rest of us will follow. Lark, Dol, find the closest cover and lay suppressing fire where it's needed. The good news is that if the Greenies have overrun the LZ, they'll have a lot of targets to choose from when we debark, try not to be one of them!"
Muttering to himself "And if you are, make your death useful!" As a frecking sandbag stand in or at least kill some"
The squad makes its way to the troop exit in a swift and smooth fashion. Hearing the dull clunk of lead on metal, the guardsmen know that the shuttle is definitely being targeted. With the sniper team in the lead, Sarge gives a curt nod to Scope and punches the door toggle. Amid sounds and sights of battle, the team charges down the ten foot extending ramp to the ground, assessing the situation quickly while under fire.
North-north-west of the shuttle, perhaps a little less than a kilometer away, an Imperial position is besieged. Bright daylight reveals heavy fighting between Ork units and what must certainly be the Brontian Longknives 4th Light Infantry Regiment. Smoke is in the immediate vicinity and a Greenskin Rokkit streaks across the sky.
The Swamp Rats arrive on Planet Skrynne.
Scholastic Lore (Tactica Imperialis) Test (1d100=82)
I hit the ground running. Signaling Dot to follow quick. Looking for a place for us to set up. Hopefully with a good line of fire and cover. Being an open LZ and other landing craft cross winds will be an issue.
As I am descending the ramp I look for a nice pile of crates. there is always a pile of crates for me to stand behind.
"Gerr keep an eye out for a good spot to set up."
Edwin lays a hand on the commissar's shoulder to keep him from running out with the first line of troopers. This should keep him relatively safe, though the bodies of the Oremorites block Edwin's view of the battlefield.
.
.
Sgt. Mire emerges in the vanguard of the squad, just behind Scope and Dot, and ahead of the rest of his men. Stopping a few meters away from the end of the boarding ramp and standing tall, he raises his magnoculars to his eyes as the men of the 4th surge around him in a hurried tide of drab-green camo.
As the ork rocket screeches overhead, he surveys the Brontian position, the thick pall of smoke obscuring his view.
The remainder of Squad Mire makes its way to the bottom of the ramp and spreads out as more Imperial Guardsmen come streaming from the shuttle. Captain Castiglione passes through the doorway giving verbal exhortations.
Taking station in an earth furrow created by the shuttle's landing gear, Sarge scans the field once more through his magnoculars. A streaking object crosses his line of vision and the veteran lowers the glasses, realizing instantly a rocket is inbound! He instinctively drops but before he can even think to tell others to do the same, he tracks the missile as it screeches directly overhead towards the shuttle.
The ork projectile slams into the shuttle bay door with a thunderous
Sgt. Mire sees a flash vaporize Captain Castiglione and those near him. Shards of metal rip others to shreds while the concussive effect throws a lucky few survivors off the ramp. The rear exit hatchway is now a burning mess of mangled steel.
53
Initiative:
Awareness (36+20=56):
Caught in the thunderous backwash of the rokkit explosion, Hathin is stunned and slow to react.
Somewhere outside Imperial Supply Depot 31
Two lumbering Orks burst from the brush into an open clearing. Scrawled upon their chest in bright yellow paint is the ensign of the Jagged Fang. Explosions burst and tracers lace the ground around them. They follow scores of other Orkoids assaulting a walled compound to the west. Several Orks ahead of the pair are stitched with withering las-fire. “Look’out!” yells the first who shoves the second behind a fallen tree. Rounds snap branches above the prone pair. After a few seconds the fire abates.
“Not lookin’ good, Ugfang,” says the second.
“Not lookin’ good at all, Ogfang,” says the first.
“Boss sez charge the fort, kill the ‘umies,” says Ugfang.
“‘Bout that way?” says Ogfang, pointing to a series of dilapidated buildings. They look at each other and nod. As one they leap up and make for the ruins at full sprint. “’Ere we go! ‘Ere we go!” they shout.
They make their way through the abandoned structures thus avoiding enemy fire. “C’mon! Missin’ the fun!” says Ogfang.
“Gettin’ ‘ungry!” says Ugfang.
Now with nothing but open ground ahead of them, they start their final charge toward the ramparts. However, a high-pitched whine overtakes the cacophony of battlefield sounds. The two look about and spot an Imperial shuttle, trailing smoke, as it streaks towards a landing pad south of the base. It slams hard into the ground and the vessel’s landing gear spews dirt, carving two wide tracks into the earth as it scrapes and shambles to a stop.
“Lookie!” says Ugfang.
“Target!” says Ogfang.
A hatch on the rear of the shuttle raises and a ramp extends. Several Imperial guardsmen scramble forth.
“Boss not like this. More ‘umies keepin’ us from da loot.”
“Da loot! Better use the launcha!” Ogfang says, handing over a rokkit.
“Watch this!”
The ork takes careful aim. Crude-looking missiles, packed with incendiaries, protrude from the hand-held device.
“Make it go boom!”
Pulling the trigger, a rokkit shoots forth. The rough, misshapen tailfins seem incapable of keeping the missile straight and the projectile veers wide. Yet as if drawn by a magnet, the rokkit spirals back--seemingly in defiance of all laws of physics--and drills the craft's hatchway area, causing a massive explosion and felling several soldiers.
“Big boom! Brutal and cunning!” says Ogfang as he slaps Ugfang across the back of the skull.
“Cunning and brutal!” says Ugfang as he punches Ogfang in the chest.
The pair cackle and wave as several other Orks come towards them, their attention also drawn to the shuttle.
“Over ‘ere boyz!” says Ogfang who then turns to his mate, “Do it again!”
Ugfang lines up for another shot.
Skrynne Southern Hemisphere
Near Supply Depot 31
45.818.M41
With the concussive blast of the Ork missile still ringing in their ears, Squad Mire assesses the situation.
Slagged metal and fire blocks the shuttle's primary exit hatchway. There are emergency exits and the fire can be put out but undoubtedly disembarkation will be delayed. Screams and groans of pain are emitted by a few soldiers laying on the ramp and ground, wounded from the blast. Smoke clouds the view of battle in the distance as Orks press home an attack on an Imperial installation.
Despite efforts of restraint by Trooper Drususon, the Commissar sallies forth having spotted the enemy. He points them out with his chain-sword, "Xenos scum! Suffer them not to live!" Northwest of the squad two Orks and four Gretchin run towards the shuttle, guns blazing. One of the Gretchin checks its charge only to have its Ork handler give it a swift kick to the rear, propelling the smaller alien forward by several meters. North of the squad past numerous burned out or abandoned buildings moves a second detachment of Orks.
Gunner Dol spots the enemy but does not see any immediate protected positions to shoot from. He takes note that one of the rear shuttle engines is on fire and that smoke pours from it.
Having sprinted forth in the van, Scope is first to see the Greenskins arrayed against them. After a quick peek through his telescopic scope, the sniper sees that among the xenos nearer the buildings is an Ork preparing to fire a rocket launcher.
Seeing no immediate cover I drop down on the tarmac to lessen my profile to the enemy.
"I got the Ork with the Rokkit Launcher. Keep the others off of me."
Knowing Dot is doing the same. I use the smoke coming off the buildings so I can gauge wind speed and direction. Dot will make adjustments for me from there.
Have to kill the Rokkit Launcher or everyone else in the shuttle won't have much of a chance.
Zoning in the the Green Skins profile. I steady my breathe and squeeze the trigger with well practiced ease. I am in my zone. My element. I am death.
As Scope lines up, he hears Dot next to him setting up a small wind-gauge. Dialing through magnoculars, the spotter whispers, "wind speed eight."
Making the smallest of adjustments, the sniper fires. At the same instant the Ork shifts slightly.
Not panicking, Scope squeezes smooth as silk. He sees a large chunk of meat punch out the back of the Ork's right arm and shoulder.
Time to test the stories. Does it take more than one round to stop an Ork....
The Ork prepares to fire a second missile at the shuttle when a slug hits its right arm and shoulder joint. Howling in pain, the creature drops and the launcher is tossed aside several meters. Rolling upright, it tries to use the limb but the arm dangles uselessly at the Ork's side.
I move forward and hoping to the nearest cover I can find, trying to get at least into a decent range to shoot something. Dolf you stronzo!! Cover me and move along!
I move forward and hoping to the nearest cover I can find, trying to get at least into a decent range to shoot something. Dolf you stronzo!! Cover me and move along!
Anselm and Dolf move forward, guns extended. As they search for cover the Operator hears shouting and makes note of the smoke pouring from the shuttle.
The experienced Operator Tartare has a formidable working knowledge with many land-based Imperial vehicles. Although his exposure to space-borne craft is limited, he knows enough Mechanicus lore to realize that the burning rear-port engine is a disaster waiting to happen--If the fire reaches the fuel line the shuttle could turn into an inferno, roasting men still inside.
While killing time during warp transit, Tartare and Dolf became drinking buddies with a couple of low-rank navy techs and got a first-hand tour of the shuttle. Tartare remembers there is a panel access on the outside of the ship that should allow fuel to be vented and lines cut. The panel is underneath the shuttle towards the rear.
I look for cover. If I can't find any, I will go prone and fire my lascarbine.
Doc and Zees tumble into the eastern furrow, squeezing off ineffectual rounds at the charging Orks and Gretchin.