Star Wars Episode 3.5.4: The Breaking Storm
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .
"Comm check. Three minutes to release, gear up and lock down back there."
Captain Graul snapped his DC-17 blaster rifle together with a flick of his wrist, seating a fresh cartridge of tibanna gas in the chamber. The heads-up display integrated into his visor gave him location markers for his entire company, but he still took a visual headcount before responding. The equipment he and his clone troopers used -- "Kit", in parlance -- was reliable, some of the best warfighting technology in the galaxy; but over reliance on it could get them killed all the same.
He reached thirty-six and nodded slightly; Bantha company was hot, locked in, and ready for drop. He'd expected no less; all of the men were combat veterans, and a few of the noncoms had been with him since Geonosis 3 years before. The target was new, but the mission was not: they were to land, provide overwatch for Aleph company while they secured a perimeter around the LZ, and then assault the target building, slotting everything they found. The fact that today's target was a Jedi Temple concerned him on a tactical level -- no one that had seen Master Tau-Se and his twi'lek Padawan carve their way though a formation of battle droids could be entirely sanguine about assaulting a building full of Jedi -- but the Order had betrayed the Republic, and he had his orders.
A double blink put his helmet comm on the same frequency as the pilot. "Bantha six to Rock two: reading you five by. We're go for drop back here, you just get us on the ground and keep the caf hot. We'll do the rest."
He could hear a smile in the pilot's voice as he responded. "Copy, cap'n, but that's a neg on the caf. The deck crews just hosed this crate out, can't have all you dirties retching on the deckplates. Ninety seconds to drop. Rock two out."
Graul switched over to the company frequency and addressed his men. "Ninety seconds, gentlemen. Look sharp."
"Sir!" One voice from thirty six throats. Graul smiled behind his helmet, proud to be leading his men -- his brothers -- into the fire once more.
At Geonosis he'd been a Lieutenant, manning a ball turret on an LAAT/i gunship. That had been a bad one, they'd engaged the seppies with untested kit, well trained but unblooded troops, and precious little intel. What had been presented to them as a relatively simple exfiltration op had instead become a full scale pitched battle; his gunship had taken a hit from a hailfire missile and fallen apart in the air, killing his entire pod. Graul alone survived, thanks to the sturdy construction of his transparisteel bubble and their relatively low altitude.
Afterward, he'd been assigned to the 420th Legion, serving under Tau-Se as they chased the Seps all around the outer rim. Attrition and a facility for sound tactics had propelled him upward through the ranks, eventually landing him in command of Gamma Regiments four companies: Bantha company, as fine a unit of troops as he could hope for.
Until Ralltir, and Order 66 -- now the 420th was reporting to the captain of the Victory, a human named Jan Dodonna. The man was as much an unknown as the ships he brought with him; the Victory and her compliment of starfighters were the latest products of Sienar Fleet Yards, prototypes meant to prove their worth by stomping out the nascent Jedi rebellion.
The deck shifted under his seat, and Rock Two's voice came over the comm: "Rocks away. Six minutes to dirt."
Graul relayed the message to his squad commanders and tried to settle in as they passed it down the line. This was the hardest part, every time; all his skills, all his experience meant nothing. For the next six minutes he and his unit were completely at the mercy of their ship and their pilot -- not a comforting thought to someone who'd already been shot out of the air once. At least the CR-20 had it's own inertial compensation gear, unlike the "Larty" at Geonosis; there would be no bouncing around on this trip.
Less than a minute into the drop, something went wrong. Graul heard his pilot's voice over the comm, broadcasting on the emergency channel: "Rock Two to Valiant, cease fire, repeat cease fire -- brace-brace-brace!"
What? The transmission made no sense. The Valiant was one of the three Acclimator class assault ships in Dodonna's battle group -- a freindly. Could she really be firing on her own troops?
All questions were forced from his mind as shaped charges blew the troop compartment free of the rest of the ship -- an emergency measure, designed to be used if the ship itself were in danger of being destroyed. There was a split second of weightlessness, and then Graul and his men were being pressed upwards, against their restraints
Stars end, we're burning in. The compartment was rated for ballistic re-entry, provided that its ablative sheild was intact -- the fact that his enviornmental sensors reported a stable temperature suggested that it was. We may still be crushed, but at least we won't cook.
Graul switched over to the company command frequency, feeling the body glove that encased him constrict in an effort to keep blood in his extremities. "All units, brace for impact. We're going in hot."
One of the men -- Graul was too busy fighting his gorge to confirm who -- responded through his vocorder: "Gee, cap, I'm glad you're here to tell us these things."
Then the compartment began to tremble, ripping through the denser lower layers of Kemparas' atmosphere, and every man of Bantha company devoted their efforts to holding on to their restraints. Graul's vision began to grey at the edges, and he wondered in a fragmented way which would give first: his ribs, his chestplate, or the harness that held him in his seat.
He was saved an answer as the compartment slammed into the ground with a noise that overloaded his audio receptors. He saw five of his men killed instantly when the aft structural support buckled and the collapsing section crushed them in their seats, spraying blood and bits of white plastic at those seated opposite. His stomach did a roll as the compartment bounced, filling the world with the screech of torn metal, then it came back down on the port side, snapping his head into the bulkhead. He heard a crunch at the impact, and was still wondering wether it was his helmet or his skull when the darkness took him.
To be continued . .