The gravel crunched under foot as I made my way toward the sprawling command tent. Troops milled around me, most seeking shelter from the oppressive sun. Emperor, it was hot. My combat top underneath my flak armor was already soaked through with sweat and I had only been outside for a few minutes. I couldn't wait to get off this fucking planet and to another battlespace, preferably one that was cold and snowy.
The command tent loomed ahead, bulbous and arrayed with all manner of scanning and jamming antennae. It reminded me of some of the local species of insects, which, unfortunately, were extremely poisonous and had a nasty habit of hiding in your boots as you slept. Eventually, I reached the entrance and rapped on the makeshift door with my gloved hands.
"Enter," a voice replied lazily from just inside the doorway.
I opened flakboard door, stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a glorious blast of icy cold air. Holy hell, it felt amazing. I remained rooted in the doorway, enjoying the arctic air, relishing every second of it.
"Nice, isn't it, Sergeant?"
I snapped out of my blissful state and saw a radio operator pointing at the fat, silver tubes crisscrossing the ceiling. They were humming quietly as they worked to pump cold air into the confines of the tent.
"Very nice," I remarked.
"We just got them installed last week."
"Lucky. Any chance of more of those being installed in the troop tents?"
The radioman shook his head, his flabby jowls quivering, a result of being privy to the private food stores of the high command tent, "Officers first. Going somewhere, Sergeant…?"
"Sergeant Marson, 10th Cordean, 2nd Battalion " I answered, identifying myself and my unit, "I'm looking for the comms room."
"Follow the signs all the way to the back."
I grunted and headed further into the command tent. The inside was divided into a multitude of rooms, using propped up pieces of flakboard as walls. Some of the rooms were full of Imperial Guard officers, droning on about policies and procedures and others were converted into private offices. I peeked inside one as I walked past and saw an old Major snoozing on a comfortable looking couch, a blanket laid out on top of him. Bastards. I decided to ignore the rest of the rooms, for my own sanity.
I followed the main hallway, turning twice, before ending in front of the main comms room. Inside, dozens of guardsmen hurried around, monitoring communication feeds, radio links and tapping furiously at data slates. This was the heart of battalion operations within battlespace WQ68 of the planet Aftus. A battalion sized detachment from the 10th Cordean Light Infantry Division had been sent to Aftus as part of a multi-division pacification operation. Apparently, Aftusian natives had decided that they wanted to rule themselves. That's a no-go in the Imperium's eyes. This operation was therefore intended to be a quick strike, a powerful, surgical blow to erase the Aftusian insurgents from existence.
The war had started quickly enough, with an awe-inspiring series of orbital bombardments, followed by hyper-precise bombing runs from the Imperial Navy. I remember the onboard troop holds shaking violently with each booming shot from the Navy's "Planet Cracker" cannon. The strikes had all but destroyed key planetary defense facilities, comm arrays and training facilities. The operation should have been a clean sweep, once boots had finally hit the ground.
The reality, however, was that a substantial amount of infantry and vehicles had escaped from the targeted installations and took to the harsh, mountainous landscape of Aftus. What was intended to be a lightning fast, crushing defeat had turned into a protracted counter-insurgency war. Every day was now a patrol, as we roamed the mountains, hunting for Aftusian fighters. The rumor was that the Division commander was infuriated that one of his best battalions of light infantry had failed to crush a "backwater" planet into the dust and bring the populace back into the Imperium.
I scanned the room, looking for my battalion liaison. The men in the room were clean cut, with spotless uniforms and full bellies. I looked down at my own uniform and attempted to brush some dirt off of my trousers and fix some wrinkles. It didn't make a difference, as there was a three inch gash in my pants, above the knee. That was a close call, courtesy of some now-dead Aftusians with a frag missile.
"Don't worry about it, Marson. There's nothing to see down there anyways."
Surprised, I turned and saw my liaison, a bemused look on his face as he crossed the room to meet me.
"Kale! Good to see you!", I exclaimed, recognizing my old friend.
"Ah-ah that's Staff Sergeant Kale, now. Respect the rank, Marson." He said, tapping the rank insignia on his collar. A rounded rocker had appeared beneath his chevrons, denoting the rank of Staff Sergeant.
"So it seems," I said, eyeing the rank, "I'm still gonna call you Kale though."
He laughed, "Still a disrespectful bastard."
"Only to assholes that deserve it."
Silas Kale. I hadn't seen him in quite a while. I first met the sarcastic redhead in our Basic Combat Training unit. We were both eighteen standard years and he acted every bit of that age. A practical joker, he had a habit of stealing everyone's towels while they were in the shower units. His little joke finally ended when he stole my towel the second time and I ran across the barracks stark naked and cracked him in the jaw. A brawl took place next, which resulted in five tipped over wall lockers and two broken noses. However, we ended up swapping laughs and stories as we sat in the gravel combatives pit, organizing rocks by size and shape for twelve hours straight, as per orders of our infuriated Drill Sergeants.
We had been good friends ever since and fought in numerous engagements together with the 10th Cordean, until he was transferred out of the unit after a life threatening lasgun wound that he took to the gut. And now he was here, seemingly healthy and back in the 10th Cordean.
"You look like shit, Marson."
I shrugged, as he looked over my disheveled and ripped uniform. The combat top and trousers, once a light gray, had slowly turned a dirty brownish tan, which admittedly, helped blend into the harsh desert environment.
"Comes with the territory. Being in a line company isn't easy these days. The Aftusians have us running ragged with all their damn guerilla attacks. I sleep with my gear on, Kale."
"Tell me about it. 'The Hammer of the Emperor' isn't so effective when there's nothing solid to hit." Kale motioned to the 'Troops In Contact' map.
I looked over and saw a large, glossy topographical layout of WQ68, our designated battlespace. Colored pins were pushed into the map in seemingly random spots. Each pin signified a TIC incident. There were hundreds.
"Damn, that's a lot." I remarked, studying the multitude of pins on the TIC map.
"That's just this week." Kale said, moving aside as a young officer came over and pinned in four new pins into the map. He sighed, "It never ends. The worst part is that we have no way of predicting the attacks. It's like when we were on Provis VI."
He was referring to our first combat tour on Provis VI, a typical Imperial Guard action involving millions of troops. The front line, alone, consisted of tens of thousands of guardsmen. Kale and I had weathered the never-ending hordes of greenskins on the hellish mud fields of Provis VI. We both stood quietly, reminiscing about our first tour, until he snapped out of it, clapping his hands briskly.
"Whoops, slipped into a daydream!" He moved to his desk and picked up a dataslate, "Now, the reason you're here."
"Right." I said, digging into my cargo pocket for the most important piece of equipment a Cordean guardsman can carry.
May hand came out holding a battered leather bound notebook. My fingers quickly flipped through dozens of pages filled with notes and sensitive mission information. I found the first clean page and smoothed out any creases.
"Mission?" Kale asked, looking at the map, while holding his data slate.
"Day patrol. On foot. Destination is…FOB Hammer, five clicks north."
"How many?"
"My squad, eleven personnel total, including myself. Call sign is Renegade 3-2."
Renegade 3-2 was my new call sign, ever since Staff Sergeant Galton, my old squad leader, took a Aftusian bayonet in the throat during a routine patrol. As the former Alpha team leader, I had to step up and become the new 2nd squad leader of 3rd platoon, Beta Company. So far, the switch had been fairly seamless.
"Okay, so here's the situation," Kale said, switching his gaze back and forth between his data slate and the TIC map, "Routes Sword and Aquila are black. Off limits, do not use that route. Route Cutter is red and Route Cain is Amber. Route Irae is green, so I'd suggest taking that way. Intel states that there has been no reported enemy activity around FOB Hammer since three days ago."
"Got it," I muttered, scribbling furiously in my notebook, so that I could properly brief my squad before setting off on our patrol, "What assets do we have?"
"Global forecast for WQ68 suggests erratic sandstorms during the day, so the Navy says no Close Air Support." Kale said.
"I guess that counts for Medivacs too?" My tone of voice not too hopeful.
Kale grimaced, "Sorry buddy."
I frowned inwardly at the thought of carrying multiple casualties back to the FOB.
"But we do have Basilisk batteries on standby, courtesy of our friends from the 84th Erdo. You should also have 80MM mortar support from FOB Hammer, once you get in range," He said, consolingly.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Uh…let's see…you'll have Alpha Company performing a raid on a village to your west, but it shouldn't have any bearing on your patrol," Kale scrolled through his pad, "That's it."
I finished transcribing his words, looked at my chicken scratch handwriting and shut the notebook, satisfied with the information. Kale set the datapad on his desk and stuck his hand out in my direction.
"It's good to see you, Thell. I mean it, it's been way too long," Kale said, as I took his hand and shook it tightly.
"You too, Silas," I smiled, "Now I have to go on this damn patrol, before they finish the war without me."
"Good luck out there," Silas Kale said, releasing his grip.
"We'll be fine. It's just a patrol."