Have to give these Xeno's credit. They don't quit.
I pop a round into the Runt Herd. Hopefully its enough. Nothing else the shot should keep his buddies honest and keep there heads down. It make it easier for Sarge ad the rest of the boys to move up.
The shot buries into the beast's right quadricep, ripping apart flesh of the leg and causing a huge gout of blood that sprays in every direction. The Ork grabs its leg in a futile attempt to stem the flow of vital fluids. In its death throes it lets forth a feral scream of agony, as the Gretchin cower nearby.
The squad's medic and his corpsman scurry across the furrow to examine the wounded guardsman, Dol. The diagnostor is not needed in this case as Doc Zane can easily discern that a vicious gash across the temple is the source of Dol's malady. The heavy gunner grouses as the medic begins to clean the wound with swabs and antiseptic sprays.
"I told you just have a thick skull, like you said you'll be alright."
It takes some cajoling but Doc Zane convinces Dol to lower his weapon long enough so that the medics can quickly aid the heavy gunner. "Got it," says Zees as he applies gauze to the wound the staunch the bleeding.
Doc shines a small light in the eyes of the gunner and sees no apparent sign of concussion. As Zees wipes away the blood that is coagulated on the side of the head and neck, Doc sprays a stinging antiseptic to clean the wound.
Dol grouses and raises his weapon again, leaving Doc to finish up by applying a clean bandage and wrapping tape like a head-band to the gunner's skull.
The heavy barrage of stubber fire keeps the heads of the Greenskins low to the northwest.
Still pinned, the two westernmost Gretchin fire blindly towards the guardsmen near the shuttle .
The lone Runtherd directs his two minions to focus on the Stormtrooper who has made his way up the trench.
One round kicks up furrow-dirt near the storm trooper but no shot finds purchase.
The the northeast two Orks armed with bolt weapons run out from behind some buildings and head southward.
"Okay, we're done. Go and kill some greenskins."
As the xenos burst through the buildings Lark screams . Tracking the lead ork for a few yards before squeezing off another superheated load of vaporizing death...
The projectile of pure energy engulfs the head of the Ork in a flash. The beast stumbles but still continues forward, its now singed-flesh leaving a wispy trail of smoke behind it.
Astonished the Greenskin still breathes, Book nonetheless says, "Praise the Emperor for guiding your hand."
Sarge hoofs it over the uneven ground of the shuttle-carved trench, grateful for its cover as the ork fire pelts the ground around them. Hearing the blazing report of Hathin's plasma gun, he looks into the distance toward what his resident malcontent was firing at, and sees his fears realized---two more fecking orks breaking cover from the ruins to the northeast, now rushing at them with bloodlust filling their mad, porcine eyes.
"Good spot, Larks, keep up the fire!!!"
He comes to a stop, raises his carbine to his shoulder and fires another shot, aiming at the ork that is just now emerging from the superheated glow of Lark's last shot.
Sarge's las-round cooks part of the scrub-brush immediately ahead of the wounded Ork.
With glee Commissar Vex shouts to the Sarge, "Let us test our mettle in the forge of combat!" He leaps out of the furrow and charges north-east towards a pile of rubble immediately east of De'Lark's position.
As the Commissar shouts his admonition, Sgt. Mire curses under his breath, eyes still wincing from the afterglow of the plasma burst.
Wonderful, The damned Commissar is going to get himself killed within five minutes of planetfall!
As much as Mire believes this might make everything that much easier on the rest of the 4th, the paperwork alone required to document the polticial officer's demise would be a nightmare.
Fair enough, better off with the devil you know, my pater used to say...
Moving toward the edge of the furrow, clutching the haft of his chain chit-sickle, the Sarge looks around for any further threats before following Commissar Vex out into the open ground.
I keep up the suppressive fire.
"Men I am over half way through the canister. Ill keep their heads down if you can pick them off."
Lark's face splits into a wide smile as he sees the plasma fold around the ork's head.
Awareness (36):
Dol feels the heat coming from his stubber barrel as he pours more lead at the Greenskins. Dirt from near-misses pelt the prone enemy and they respond with growls and screeches.
"Keep it going!" Gerr yells over the racket, "I got the next drum ready!"
Lark takes a moment to size up the ork he lit up before and bellows at Book "Keep him guessing Book" holding aim and breathing deep as Book's desultory las fire phuts forth from his left. When Hathin is sure of his targeting he whispers Night night bastard" and delivers another superheated greeting...
...but the greenskin weaves away from one of Book's covering shots and Lark's plasma flies wide of the target and uselessly disperes upon the ground. "Sh1t"
Edwin inspects the mob of greenskins before him and singles out the Runherd. Raising his lasgun to his shoulder, he fires a tight burst at which sends two bolts burning through the creature's chest cavity, causing twin geysers of green ichor to shoot from its back as its unnatural organs liquify under the assault.
Atop the exit-ramp of Imperial Shuttle Spina, steps out the commander of Battalion Secondo, Major-Overseer Huldrych Scarpa. Less formally known as “Da Capo,” it is a title he does not eschew. He lurches forward with a limp due to a prostheses leg, a wound from a past battle with heretic forces. Through his magnoculars he surveys the battlefield while beside him a vox-operator rattles off reports. Troops scurry past him and form up at the base of the ramp. Without lowering his field glasses, he speaks a few words to the operator.
Sgt. Mire sees his adjutant Murjoff scurry back towards his position. “Hey chief, it’s Da Capo,” he says handing forth the transmitter.
I continue my over watch staring down my scope, as Dot calls out targets and vectors.
Laying prone upon the field, the sniper feels slight moisture seep onto his torso and elbow from the wet grass.
"Just little ones to the northwest," says Dot, "Swing 45 degrees right. Biggies coming from the buildings. Wind three-point-five."
Concentration is the greatest skill a sniper can hone, and I ignore the discomfort of the water lapping up into my clothes. Glad its not razorpedes, or fire ants.
"Three-point-five, affirmative."
I take a shot at one of the Orks trying for a neck shot.
Operator Tartare hears the engines cycle down and sees pressure gauges drop. The guardsman pauses for just a moment as the magnitude of his actions sinks in.
His moment of reflection is over in a flash.
"C'mon Anselm! Are you waiting for a fraggin' medal? Let's go!" shouts Dolf as he grabs his comrade by the arm and moves north.
Through his telescopic site, the sniper sees the blackened face of the Ork that already took a plasma round to the head.
The Greenskin staggers as the bullet punctures its jacket and shatters a rib.
Gasping the beast collapses in a heap, clutching its side and howling in pain.
=================================================================
Anselm and Dolf emerge from beneath the shuttle and take up station next to Gunner Dol.
Watching as Scope's precise, murderous fire drops another of the greenskins, Sgt. Mire comes to a halt, and drops to one knee in the trench, finally hearing Murjoff's plaintive yelling from behind. Turning, he sees his loyal adjutant crouching behind him, somewhat exasperated, and takes the vox handset from him.
"Major, this is Sgt. Mire of the Fourth, glad to see you're still with us. Company is presently positioned at grid two-niner by five, easternmost furrow, about a half a click from the crash site. We are engaged with flanking greenskin assault elements, one prong moving south by south east from the Brontian position, the lead elements of the second emerging from the ruins to the northeast. Respectfully requesting support fire so that this lead element can do its damned job and reconnoiter, sir!"
Anslem shakes his head as he sees the fierce fight in front of him and quickly running for cover behind Dolf before anything else "Where is that stubborn bastard and that pain in my arse..." as he keeps trying to find them.
Murjoff appears relieved that his sergeant finally took the handset and is in contact with their battalion commander. He takes out his las-pistol and squeezes off a couple of round into the distance.
Looking back at the shuttle, Sarge sees that several squads have disembarked using either the shuttle ramp of alternate emergency exits on either side of the craft.
"Major, this is Sgt. Mire of the Fourth, glad to see you're still with us. Company is presently positioned at grid two-niner by five, easternmost furrow, about a half a click from the crash site. We are engaged with flanking greenskin assault elements, one prong moving south by south east from the Brontian position, the lead elements of the second emerging from the ruins to the northeast. Respectfully requesting support fire so that this lead element can do its damned job and reconnoiter, sir!"
Major Scarpa's voice sounds over the line: <<Acknowledged. Listen Mire, those Brontians are done for unless we push forward right now. We can't get bogged down in a fire-fight around the shuttle. Squad Scuro will take care of those Gretchin. Take your men and secure those structures to the east. I know you want to be the spear-tip but I need you to keep our right flank secure.>>
Sarge sees the other squads moving out double-time in the direction of the Brontian fortifications.
Anslem shakes his head as he sees the fierce fight in front of him and quickly running for cover behind Dolf before anything else "Where is that stubborn bastard and that pain in my arse..." as he keeps trying to find them.
As Operator Tartare and his comrade clamber out from beneath the shuttle, a Tech-Priest crosses their path, looking up at the once-burning shuttle engine. "By the Omnissiah! How did this happen? According to telemetry, detonation of the fuel-stores was imminent..." Stupefied, the Engiseer stumbles forth a couple of steps and falls to his knees. "It's a miracle!"
At the foot of the unloading ramp, Squad Scuro checks gear and readies to push off. A few of the soldiers notice the sniper from Squad Mire nearby, prone and firing selected shots.
"Hey look," says one of the Guardsmen, "It's sad, pathetic, little Solitario."
Another picks up on the barb, "And his only friend, The Pip-Squeak."
"Have you managed to hit anything, Solitario?" says a third, "Or is stronzo too busy hiding back here by the shuttle?"
Sgt. Scuro barks a command at the men and they run north. One of the soldiers gives a parting shot, "See you inside the compound, Grotz-breath!"
A different voice bursts through Murjoff's vox-set, <<Watch your right!>>
As if on cue to Major Scarpa's orders, Sergeant Mire, Commissar Vex, and Specialist De'Lark see more Greenskins emerge from the rotted buildings east of their position.
The Ork hit by De'Lark's plasma and Scope's slug continues to writhe in agony. Its mate leaps over him and runs to a pile of rubble and scrap.
To the north-west the pinned Runtherd scurry behind bushes that provide the only cover and attempt to rally.
Flicking a small toggle on the side of his plasma, Hathin kicks it into maximal and takes a steady bead on the Ork that has taken cover. Feeling the heat within the plasma build slowly to a crescendo Lark licks his lips and waits for the xeno's head to pop out from behind the rubble...
As the bottom feeders start to trot off.
"Good thing your sergeant is kicking you ladies back in line. Between putting on your make up, and clucking like upper spire hen's. You all would miss the war."
Seeing where squad's from the shuttle advance. I look for my next vantage point to set up. Just waiting for the Sarge's orders.
Glancing at Dot. "Ready to move?"
"By the Omnissiah! How did this happen? According to telemetry, detonation of the fuel-stores was imminent..." Stupefied, the Engiseer stumbles forth a couple of steps and falls to his knees. "It's a miracle!"
Outraged and mustering his best words "Move! You can thank me later, just remember my name is Anselm no Ohmy-whatever thing and it was miracle we just pulled of" as Anselm rolls his eyes and he can already feel Dolf's jokes about to ambush him like some sort of a hungry hound about to feed on a nice piece of lamb. After pushing the thought away Anselm focuses on more pressing matters as a couple of shots pass to close for his liking and tries to keep up with the rest of the group "Dolf, If you see "them" tell me" as he continues to look for his precious vehicles to help him change the tide of this fight as he is at best an average shooter.
"Good thing your sergeant is kicking you ladies back in line. Between putting on your make up, and clucking like upper spire hen's. You all would miss the war."
One of the trio of mean-spirited guardsmen appears non-plussed at the sniper's retort, opening his mouth once or twice but saying nothing at all. Before he can form a reply Sergeant Scuro shouts, "Dammit, Grist, I said move!"
Duly chastened the soldier heads off to catch up with the rest of the squad.
Glancing at Dot. "Ready to move?"
"Yeah," returning the glance and winking, "For a second there I thought that ape might burst a synapse."
Mire replaces the handset on Murjoff's vox-caster, squatting in the stinking mud of the shuttle-carved trench, unconsciously chewing his lip while he considers how best to execute the Major's orders. Surveying the battlefield with narrowed eyes, he slaps Murjoff on the back, grinning in a manner that is most unnnerving to his adjutant.
"C'mon then, lets go to work Enzo."
Sgt. Mire looks back over his shoulder to Scope and Dol, shouting in his familiar, harsh, roar over the withering stubber fire.
"Scope, peel off those herders and their imps, they're the Major's problem now. Time to secure the east flank! You and Dot scamper up topside on one of those ruined structures and thin out the newcomers!"
"Dol, Dol...DOL!!! Move that stubber over to the eastern side of the trench and set up a corridor of fire along the edge of the ruins!"
Enzo gives the Sarge a quizzical look, his obvious skepticism showing that he doesn't quite perceive the rhyme or reason to Mire's orders. What he says next makes everything fall into place.
"Everyone else, form up on me and double time it down this trench and give those greenskins something to charge at, take positions just west of that northernmost mound of rocks and lay down some fire, get 'em moving our way!"
After realigning his squad to the east, Sarge hugs the earth low and follows the furrow to the north. Murjoff, cursing, tries to keep up.
"Gerr you heard the man."
I move down the rut i am in to get closer to the kill zone.
"We will have to reload soon, Sarge."
"Well we heard the man. Lets move!"
Will follow the trench till we need to cross open ground and set up our next perch at the ruined buildings. Hopefully we will get there before the Green Skins. I have no desire for close combat.
Sgt. Mire looks back and sees that Dol does just what he asks. The burly gunner swings his hefty stubber around and charges along the ditch-line and sets up just a few meters south of Sarge's position. He sees also that the sniper and spotter are retracting equipment and readying to move. Good, thinks Sarge. Any Greenskins emerging from the structures will be funneled into kill-zones established the guardsmen.
With a grimace he realizes there is one flaw. The Commissar. Hieronymus Vex having also spotted the new horde of Orks, actually moves towards them but thankfully takes prone cover behind a large mound of debris and rubble.
The Ork fired on by the Commissar jinks behind its own rubble-strewn pile of protection. It initially does not see the weapons specialist as De'Lark unleashes a massive bubble of plasma energy.
The super-charged blast blows a hole through the rubble that the Shoota Boy hides behind, then completely engulfs the Ork, turning its flesh to liquid. Ammo and a grenade also torch off, spreading what is left of the xeno to mist in a five-meter spray.
Having killed their leader, Edwin charges towards the disorganized mob of Gretchin, dropping his lasgun on its sling and drawing his blade.
Several disembarked guardsmen squads hoof it north at a run. Their destination is Imperial Guard Supply Depot Gamma 31, currently under attack by Ork forces. A sizable xeno infantry force supported by war-bikes besieges the station. From the shuttle it appears that the main gate has been breached and there is fire coming from inside the facility's walls.
The shuttle's once-burning engines are now silent but smoke still rises silently into the muggy Skrynne sky.
Edwin's charge is fairly unimpressive, certainly nothing that would intimidate the veterans of F Company, but perhaps the cowardly and leaderless xenos are made of less stern stuff.
Hathin De'Lark watches the Ork literally melt from his well-aimed shot. The generator in his weapon whines as it re-charges from the maximal discharge. His squad mate Book watches too but instead of experiencing malicious glee as with the weapons specialist, the guardsman is overcome with reverential awe.
Despite the overwhelming sounds of battle and Book's low chanting, De'Lark still makes out the uttered prayer:
"By Thy agony and bloody sweat;
by Thy Golden Throne and Thy Death,
By Thy destruction and re-emergence as the god of Men,
Keep us and strengthen us, we who fight for Thee."