The shaped charge detonated, the system in his helmet softening the sound of the blast. With flawless timing, Sergeant Narlüg and the other three Storm Commandos rappelled into the newly made hole.
They spotted targets as they descended, opening fire the second that they hit the floor. The terrorists were surprised by the sudden attack and stunned by the explosion, they didn't stand a chance. All of the hostiles were eliminated, none of them had so much as drawn a weapon.
Commander Varlon covered them while they reloaded and detached the rappelling lines. Then the commander did the same, "Sergeant Garlüg, take point," he growled into his helmet's communicator.
"Yes, Sir," Narlüg automatically said. He stood up, the buttstock of his blaster pressed tight against his shoulder. They walked past the bodies, the impact sights still smoldered and smoked. He felt no remorse, these people were terrorists, after all. They hadn't showed the innocent people in that education center any mercy. So what if they were teaching proto-military topics to younglings, that was no reason to bomb the place!
He entered the next room, looking down the scope, clearing the corners with its reticle, the others did the same. The team was operating on a whole other level, they wasted no movement, they acted in perfect unison, with flawless precision, left nothing to chance. Years of constant training had gotten them to this point; suffering, discipline, and sacrifice had sharpened them. Their matte black armor looked like that of a Scout Trooper, but it was very different from those suits.
A man in plain civilian clothes came barreling around a corner. He was rushing to deal with what he thought was an accident, a fire extinguisher in his hands, rather than a weapon. The man saw them, his eyes went wide and his mouth opened, he droped the extinguisher, made a move for his sidearm.
Sergeant Narlüg switched his weapon to stun, the ring of blue energy struck the target's chest. The man fell to the ground, Narlüg moved toward him, pulling out a roll of engine tape.
While this was all happening, the squad made their way around the two of them, taking positions in whatever cover was available. Sergeant Narlüg quickly and efficiently secured the man, before conducting a pat down search for weapons. He found a simple knife, which he tossed behind a piece of equipment that was attached to the wall. He rejoined the others, taking point once again.
They moved on, pushing toward what the intel guys believed was the command center. This time it would be different, this time they wouldn't escape, this time they would be the ones that were under attack.
The commandos rounded a corner; a teammate fired a short burst into a someone that was scrambling to load a rapid-fire blaster rifle. Another commando took his combat knife to a terrorist that had his back to them, busy fiddling with a fire extinguisher. Another room was cleared, on to the next, which was their target.
The squad was prepared, their weapons ready, their minds focused. The terrorists were caught in the open, they fired wildly as they dove for cover. Narlüg recognized a wide variety of blasters: the big old DL-44 hand cannons, the all too common DH-17, and even a pitiful little target pistol.
With calm precision, Sergeant Narlüg took aim. He squeezed the trigger, dropping one of them. He lined up another shot, taking out another terrorist. One of them jumped out of cover and bolted across the room, moving to flank. Narlüg fired, the terrorist fell, spraying as he went, lasers blasting chunks out of the walls.
A terrorist took aim, a blast bolt struck Sergeant Narlüg's shoulder, the impact throwing him off balance. The armor's special coating absorbed the majority of the energy, but he could still feel his flesh cooking. He ignored the pain and horror, taking aim once again.
One of them was blindly firing an E11 over the top of the terminal that he had taken cover behind. "Grenade out," Sergeant Yor shouted as he tossed a Thermal Detonator over the obstacle. The enemy jumped up, but he wasn't fast enough, he caught the full force of the explosion.
"Clear," the squad leader called out. They got up, moving deeper into the room, checking corners, and making sure that the dead were really dead. As they cleared the room updates from the other squads came in. They were inside the building now, taking room after room, winning one firefight after another. The sound of a few blasts and an explosion echoed through the corridors from some other section of the base. The enemy was trying to escape and had run into opposition. He pictured them, the gleaming white armor of a Stormtrooper was such a glorious sight. The regular troops had been waiting, hiding until the commandos had infiltrated the terrorists' lair. When the attack started, they moved in to set up a cordon around the building. Now they were tightening the noose.
Sergeant Narlüg checked one of the fallen enemies, examining his face. It was strange, the Imperials were, for the most part, faceless. That had been one of the things that had first drawn him in, gotten him hooked on the holovids and collecting the toy models. The idea of ceasing to be himself and becoming a part of something greater. That, and the aesthetic that the Empire carefully cultivated.
He had gone from basic training to the esteemed ranks of the Stormtrooper Corps, from there he had distinguished himself during the occupation of a newly conquered world. This had earned him a spot in commando selection. It had been a living hell, but he had survived and earned his place among the elite.
"Nine o'clock!" one of his teammates yelled. They swiveled around, taking cover, one of them automatically took a position where he could watch the rear of the formation. Several terrorists bolted into the room, no doubt fleeing from the other squads. They were above the Imperials, standing on top of a catwalk.
The terrorists looked down in horror at the grim aftermath of the battle in the command center, before opening up on the Imperials. The enemy sprayed from the hip, the commandos fired in short, controlled bursts. A stray round blew out a computer screen that was near Commander Varlon's head, sending half-melted glass flying. He returned fire, the terrorist tumbled over the railing.
Sergeant Narlüg had drained the power from his weapon's battery, with the grace and fluidity of movement that only methodic repetition can bring he ejected the magazine and grabbed another from off of his vest. One of them drew a blade and leaped over the railing. Sergeant Narlüg reached for his sidearm, but the man landed on top of him before he could draw the pistol.
The terrorist pushed down with all of his weight and strength, everything that he could muster was focused onto the tip of his blade. Sergeant Narlüg pushed back, desperately trying to get into a better position, the blade moving closer and closer to his throat.
There was a flash of light and heat, the terrorist stopped moving and was easily pushed aside. Narlüg looked over, seeing Sergeant Korova aiming his weapon in his direction. The two of them pointed their weapons at the catwalk again, but they saw no movement or muzzle flashes, the firefight was over.
Korova walked over to the body that lay next to Narlüg, "I guess that he thought he was a hero," he said mockingly.
"Thanks, I owe you one," Narlüg said.
Sergeant Korova nodded, "Buy me a drink later. We are going to have a hell of a celebration tonight!"
The other squads reported in, all goals had been completed, all target areas captured. A Stormtrooper that sported an orange pauldron entered the room and approached them. "Orders, Sir?"
"There is a bound prisoner near our entry site, see to it that he is secured and taken to the fortress. Bring in a scanning crew to check for hidden booby traps and doorways."
"Right away, Sir!" the trooper said before marching away.
He turned to Sergeant Narlüg, "Head outside and find a medic for your arm. You did good today," the commander glanced at the others, "You all did good. We brought justice to these murderers and stopped them from hurting anyone else."
Narlüg did as ordered, heading swiftly for the exit. The halls of the building were controlled chaos. Troopers moved around in a rush, their boots making a racket as they stomped along the corridors. That armor had been a big part of why he had enlisted. He had wanted to wear that neat looking suit of armor, to be something more than himself, to be intimidating. To be something more than himself, or to be something other than himself?
His thoughts turned to his early days in the military. The hell that was basic training and then that long tour on that hostile world. He had served with distinction, exercised while the others played, stayed and fought when others had retreated. That was why he was in the special forces. He was proud to be in the commandos, but a part of him longed for the much easier and simpler days as a part of a garrison.
Vehicles were parked outside the building. A few AT-STs and a platoon of hover tanks were providing a cordon, keeping out nosy people and guarding against a counterattack. Troop transports and cargo vehicles were standing by.
Sergeant Narlüg found the APC that had been turned into a combat ready ambulance. He looked on as the medic removed the shoulder plate and examined the wound. The body glove had been melted, it was heat resistant, but everything has its limit. The medic carefully cut away the material; the skin underneath it was reddened and covered in blisters. It hurt more as a local anesthetic was applied, but the pain quickly subsided.
"It isn't so bad, a little Bacta will take care of it," the medic reassured him. Good, the injury wouldn't hurt his career.
The medic placed a dressing on the wound. Then he left to see to a Scout Trooper that had sprained a leg climbing down from his sniper position.
Sergeant Narlüg did his best to relax. A few locals dared to peek out of their third story window, staring at the troops and vehicles below. Once again, he was glad that he had the helmet. Many troopers saw it as a burden, but to him it was a blessing. It made things private, made him feel more like he was a part of the group, and besides, he had never cared much for how is face looked.
The com chatter was heavy, reports were being submitted, the search of the terrorists' base was well underway. The body count came in, thirty-six terrorists eliminated, along with one prisoner captured. The results were better than they had hoped. Intel said that the cell was about thirty, so it was likely that none had managed to slip away.
He had messed up back there, let that guy put him in a vulnerable position. But other than that, he had done good, the commander had said so. But was he just being sarcastic?
No. Don't think like that, you are one of the elite.
Sergeant Narlüg looked up, seeing the triangular shape of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer. Was there anything more inspiring?